Foehammer - Case File 1

  Chapter 2

  Assistant Director Constance Gray was five feet tall, fifty-three years old, and, as far as Donovan was concerned, had the good common sense to let her hair go gracefully white. Everything about Constance Gray was graceful, right up to the way she could level her gun at a man without blinking an eye.

  She'd been pointing more pens than guns at people since she took the job in the Director's Office. It didn't matter, though. Gray always came across as powerful and elegant no matter what was in her hand. Right now, it was a pretty intimidating manila folder.

  “Thank you for your promptness, Agent Donovan. Please, have a seat.” Sitting there in a deep navy blue suit with that silvery hair carefully brushed around her oval face, she looked more like the kind of woman who ran some elite private school, not the FBI's Office of Human Resources and Information/Technology.

  Given permission, Donovan took up residence in the fairly less plush chair that sat in the middle of the beige carpet.

  In her youthful days she had been a top agent who had more than earned the oak desk from where she now ruled. Director Gray had the singular ability to give you one look and make you want to confess everything you had ever done wrong, from the red light you went through to pulling Sandy Pinkerton’s blond braids back in kindergarten.

  Her office was deceptively spartan. The oak desk took up a third of her office space. Its polished surface had a notepad, a government grade computer, and a picture of a handsome husband posed with two teenage kids. There were three bookshelves carefully placed around the room. All of them were lined with books on law, diplomacy, and criminal justice.

  “Thank you, Director.”

  Neither of them brought up the fact that he’d called her mother on the phone.

  Aside from that embarrassing moment an hour and a half before, Donovan had never had the fortune to speak one on one with the Associate Director. He had met her in passing on several occasions, usually when she offered congratulations for a job well done. She did that, seemed to think showing up in person held more of an impact than sending an e-mail.

  She unfolded her hands and opened the folder. Right on top was his picture and his application that had been filled out eons ago. “You’ve been with us eleven years now, Agent,” she said, “You’ve done good work.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Silence stretched between them. She flipped almost casually through the file. Her eyes scrolled quickly over the information. They were moving too fast to read what was there. More like she was refreshing her memory on what she had already read. Donovan wished she wouldn’t. The longer she perused his history of law enforcement the longer the elephant in the corner continued to ask, “What is the point of this?”

  “You have been in charge of some very successful cases. Your superiors speak well of you. Your recent incident has marked you as an exemplary agent who keeps his head in unusual circumstances.”

  Donovan wasn’t sure where this was going now. She didn’t seem to be saying anything bad. She wasn’t actually saying anything good either. She wasn’t asking any direct questions so he wasn’t sure how to respond.

  “Ma’am, I don’t mean to be rude. But has there been a complaint?”

  Director Gray looked up from his file, her brows knitted in confusion. “Why would you think that?”

  “Well, you brought me in here without telling me anything, and now you are flipping through my file. I wondered…” He motioned his hands around the room.

  “Ah. I see. No, that is not why you are here. Not exactly, Agent Donovan,” she said closing the file. “You’ve received a recommendation.” She folded her hands on top of the bulging file once more. Her eyes glanced up to capture his. “You are aware of the Foehammer Act?”

  Donovan felt his stomach clench. “Hard not to hear about it.”

  “Are you aware of the particulars?” She laced her fingers together and fixed him with a cool look.

  “The Mythos addendum?” he asked, doing his best to keep his voice level. “Yes, I know about it.”

  “You disapprove?”

  Donovan took a deep breath. This question was bound to come up, especially considering his accident. Knowing this didn't really make the question any easier to answer.

  “I'm going to assume an honest answer is what you are looking for here, ma'am?”

  She sat back in her chair, her gaze steady on his. He felt like she was weighing her own words before saying them. “I think an honest answer would be best, Agent.”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, it's not really my place, to approve or disapprove, is it, ma’am?”

  “Would you explain that, please?”

  He shrugged his good shoulder. “How I feel personally on the matter doesn’t come into play, ma’am. I swore an oath to uphold the law, and I will do it. My feelings on the law are moot.”

  A small smile played on her lips. “A very political answer, Agent. I approve. You’ll need that.”

  The sinking feeling in his stomach went all the way down to his toes. “For what?”

  “The Mythos Act had multiple stipulations. The government wanted to be able to police the citizens that are now being accepted as citizens. These same people wanted to make sure they were understood and treated fairly, and furthermore policed by those who would understand their position.”

  Donovan nodded. “You are talking about Foehammer’s Investigational Rights addendum.”

  Historically speaking, it had been Roosevelt’s idea to break the greatest taboo in history and openly admit to the existence of the things that went bump in the night. Not only admit to them, but welcome them into America in an effort to help boost the economy during the Great Depression. At first people had thought it was some radio joke. Just a prank to lighten the dour mood of the out-of-work masses. When America had learned that the U.S. Government had been absolutely serious, there had been public outrage. Didn’t really matter. The beasties had come in. They'd helped.

  Every schoolchild in America knew how the thirteen families of magic and a small retinue of vampire bloodlines had come in with their old money and set up shop to give people honest work. Donovan didn’t understand the economics of it all, but the depression had ended right before the U.S. of A. had entered into World War II. The Paranormals, as they came to be called, seemed like heroes. Half the population had wanted to give them citizenship right then.

  But it hadn't been decided upon until earlier that year.

  Director Gray nodded. “I am. As of now any attack thought to be made by or against a Paranormal or supernatural citizen must be investigated by a group of specially trained law enforcement operatives who possess supernatural traits of their own.”

  It was Donovan’s turn to feel confused. He wasn’t supernatural, so he wasn’t sure how he fit into this. “I'm still not sure I get it.”

  “It is also stated that this team will be supervised and organized by a mundane mortal humanoid.”

  There it was. Eleven years of service, knowledge of leadership, wounded in the line of duty, all of it was coming down to his mundane humanoid status.

  “Seriously?”

  “This opportunity does not come without its benefits, Agent. You will be promoted to a supervisory status. Your own office, not to mention a pay increase.”

  The sensation of being hit with a frying pan flooded his body. He was being given a promotion. He was being given his own team. Hell, he was even going to be allowed to come back to work. Problem was he didn’t want it. Lead a freak brigade as their mortal human master? Fat fricken chance. Forget the possibility of bigotry. How was he supposed to wrangle a bunch of untrained people into doing real work?

  “Ma’am, I’m not sure that I am the right person for this.”

  Gray sat forward, her leather chair creaking. She leveled those serious eyes on him. “This is not a request, Agent Donovan. You have been recommended for this, and I am approving it.”

  “
Recommended? By whom?”

  The mental Rolodex of Richard Donovan's professional life was coming up blank. To be fair his personal one wasn't much better. Then again, there was a chance that whoever had nominated him wasn't doing it to be nice.

  “That's classified.” She slid her chair back and lifted a large brown box from behind her desk. It was marked with the single word “Potentials” in large block letters. She set it on top of the oak surface and pushed it towards him. “These are dossiers for several people who I, and several others, have pre-approved. You, as the leader of this group, will pick four of them.”

  “Only four? Sure that’ll be enough?”

  “Your sarcasm is unnecessary, Donovan,” she responded coolly.

  Right now his mind was alternating between frustration and anger. He was pretty sure sarcasm was a step up from either of those. He apologized anyway.

  She looked him over and then sighed. “I understand that this is an unexpected shift for you. But it has been expressed to me that you are, if nothing else, a professional. I am asking you to employ that now.”

  “Yes ma'am.”

  “And I suggest you keep a rather tight rein on yourself. The Mythos Act in general, and the Foehammer Addendum in particular, have already received a lot of media attention. By association, you will too. There is a chance that your history will come into play. Are you ready for that?”

  He ran his tongue over the inside of his teeth, tasting the remnants of mint and coffee. Was he ready for people to dig up his professional and medical history in order to belittle how he did his job? Not even a little.

  “I can handle it,” Donovan lied.

  “Hmm.” She didn't sound perfectly convinced. That was fine, Donovan wasn't convinced either. She stood up and came around the desk settling one hip against the wooden edge. “Tread carefully, Agent. We do not want any mistakes on this.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to argue, but the memory of early morning talk shows and knowing his upstairs neighbor's schedule crept behind his eyes. It might not be a dream position, but it was work.

  “Alright, alright.” He swept his hands down his knees and nodded his agreement. “So, what do I need to do? Pick out some people?”

  He reached for the brown box. She placed her hand on the lid.

  “It's not going to be that easy. This team needs to work. It is going to be watched and documented. You need to make sure your choices are above reproach.”

  This position was getting less and less appealing by the minute. “Do you have some pointers?”

  “Don't just go by the papers, better people than you or me have gone through these resumes and portfolios and decided they are acceptable. I want more from you.”

  He couldn't quite keep the sarcasm out of his mouth when he said, “Like what? Gut instinct?”

  “Call it instinct or intuition. Hell, call it divine inspiration if that's what helps you, but I need you to make sure that this team can work together. That includes you.”

  “I don't mean to be rude, but that's a lot of pressure.”

  She blew out a breath. For a moment that cool collected elegance broke, and he saw the weariness beneath. Her eyes darkened, and her shoulders slumped. “I know. I may have something for you.”

  “Right now, I'll take any scrap you can throw my way.”

  She circled back around her desk and picked up a second folder. “We received our first official request this morning.”

  “Are you serious?” he asked. “Before I was even informed?”

  She handed the file over. “I'm just the messenger, Agent.”

  He took the file. It was light. He flipped it open to find a single report written by a Corporal Matt Keene, signed off by Sheriff A. Phillips.

  “A werewolf attack?”

  “Maybe,” she answered. “A Peter Lawson and his twin sons were found dead inside their home. The wife, Lillian, survived an attack a few months ago.”

  Donovan felt his stomach go cold. “Jesus, she attacked them?”

  “That remains unknown. She hasn't been found.”

  It seemed pretty obvious to Donovan. It wasn't just the werewolf aspect. It was the fact that when a family was dead, you looked to the nearest and dearest first. Husbands killed wives. Mothers smothered babies. It was the sick twisted truth of the world that the people you loved were the most likely to leave scar tissue in their wake.

  “So you want me to go investigate this before I get a team? Or even a partner? That's not really standard operating procedure, is it?”

  “Agent Donovan,” she said, that weariness tugging at her eyes. “Does any of this seem like standard operating procedure to you?”