and hell itself breathes out

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher. And Hell Itself Breathes Out TOP SHELF An imprint of Torquere Press Publishers PO Box 2545 Round Rock, TX 78680 Copyright 2010 AR Moler Cover illustration by Alessia Brio Published with permission ISBN: 978-1-60370-991-0 www.torquerepress.com All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press. Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680. First Torquere Press Printing: May 2010 Printed in the USA

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 2

Dedicated to the "real" John Chemist, Professor, Mentor, Fencing Master, Friend I will miss you forever.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 3

And Hell Itself Breathes Out

By A. R. Moler

Chapter 1

Primary Intent

Thursday, September 14, 2006

"You -- will -- pay! You -- will -- pay! Bitch!" He growled, and the climax hit him like a gust of hurricane force wind, sharp and overpowering. He let himself collapse limply on top of her naked body for a minute. She was making little whimpering mewls and twitching. Her wrists were duct-taped to the table, as were her ankles, splayed wide apart. A blindfold covered her eyes. A gag was jammed between her teeth and tied behind her head. He pried himself off her and tossed the condom onto a wad of paper towels on the floor. The best part was done... Now for the rest. He drew a cheap artist's paint brush, a plastic bottle, and a plastic bowl from his backpack. He poured a measure of the oily liquid from the bottle into the bowl and began painting symbols on her skin. A sheet of notebook paper lay propped against the backpack, a hastily scribbled "cheat sheet" of the ritual and the symbols. He could feel the power of the ritual like a tingle in his brain. Oh... This might be even better than the first part. The power buzz was sweet, maybe as sweet as taking the bitch. Marna St. John, how he had lusted after her. She was unutterably gorgeous. He had gone to her during office hours under the auspices of seeking help with his English Lit paper. She had flirted and teased and then turned him down cold. That was bad enough; it was private, and only she had been witness to his excruciating embarrassment. But when she'd made snide comments about his adolescent fantasies in class, he'd wanted to crawl under the seat. The drugs mixed into the oil had to be taking hold in her system. Her movements were even less coordinated than earlier, but the woman was still struggling. The notes about the ritual had hinted that the drugs would also blur any memories she had into hallucinogenic mush. He carefully and methodically cleaned up. His last act was to slit the duct-tape bonds and loosen them somewhat before he hastily left. It wouldn't do to still be present when she finally freed herself. Out the back door of the shop into the alley, Mark climbed into his borrowed car. The "For Lease" sign on the door of the shop fluttered a little as he drove away. Statistics said sixty-one percent of all rapes went unreported, that is, if she even remembered anything. The unoccupied shop had been the site of a rave a few weeks ago, and vast amounts of garbage and debris remained. Any tiny trace evidence he might have left would surely go unnoticed among the rest. The drive back to the fraternity house was a good twenty minutes, enough time to calm himself and consider just how true the rumors of power were. The Order of Phlegethon was a fraternity for the privileged few. His father, a neurosurgeon, had been a member. Still was. Being a "Phlege" was a lifetime commitment; even more so was the Mnemosyne Sect, an elite group

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 4

within the fraternity. Their pledge was to support the pursuit of power and prestige at all costs. Any price was acceptable if the desire was intense enough. The sect met at random intervals, often at the mansion the fraternity was housed in, but not always. Under the guise of continued support of the fraternity, some meetings were little more than sumptuous cocktail parties. Others... were sometimes far more serious. Darker. Entry into the sect was primarily an inherited position; since his father belonged, so did he. There were occasional infusions of new blood, but those were rare. Mark thought about the night of his initiation: the robes, the candles, the solemn invocation and calling upon of powers beyond the mortal realm. It had seemed almost a joke, along the lines of an elaborate put-on. The eldest member briefly referred to a huge leatherbound book prior to the ceremony. Toward the end of the ritual, the room had grown warm, a heady tingle of energy just beneath the surface of the floor. It was almost like getting drunk. He had been amazed at the sensation. Later, he'd dawdled as robes, candles, and the book were put away. Mark decided that the book the older man had glanced at must contain valuable ritualistic instructions. He filed the information in the back of his mind as possibly useful. Now, weeks later, all the beginning-ofsemester parties and start of classes were over, and Mark's thoughts returned to the initiation and the book. He had borrowed the grimoire from a locked cabinet in a heavily secured room in the basement of the building. It had given minute details on how certain events could be accomplished. According to the grimoire, once the shock had worn off, Marna would acquiesce to his every desire... and never know it was not by her own wishes. It had taken him a full three weeks to gather all the necessary items. But lord, it had been worth every second. *** Marna struggled harder against the loosening bonds. He hadn't touched her in minutes. Was it minutes? She strained to listen. The silence was broken only by the sounds of her breathing and distant traffic noises. Was he gone? He had raped her and she had never seen his face. It had been a grab from behind and a smash to the side of the head. She felt hot and her pulse pounded. She finally wrenched free of the tape and rolled off the table, hitting the floor. Oh God, would he come back? The impact drove a wave of pain through her knees and elbows. Marna scrambled to yank off the blindfold and the gag. She let out a sob of momentary relief. He did seem to be gone. There was very little light in the large, empty space that smelled of stale beer and cigarettes. The wooden table was scarred and rickety. She needed help. Her senses were whirling, her balance was off, and she hurt. She needed help. The stickiness of the tape remained around her wrists, and she was still terrified. She staggered to her feet. There was a dim light shining through a square of glass. A door? She stumbled toward it, rubbing at the greasy goo he had put on her skin. What the hell was that all about? Why hadn't he killed her? What had he done with her clothes? It didn't matter, she had to get out. Her breath came in pants, and what little vision she had swam at strange angles. Sobbing now, she managed to fumble the door open and make it out into the night. The street light

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 5

seemed far too bright, and she could barely make out the alleyway. Need help. That much logic was left. She could hear street sounds ahead. Traffic. She kept going, her steps unsteady, as she clung intermittently to the wall. At the mouth of the alley, she stumbled out into the road. She would flag someone down, get them to call the police. A car came toward her and she staggered toward the lights, directly into its path. Brakes screamed. She felt the impact, was momentarily airborne, and fell crashing to the pavement. *** Late in the night, a dead body drew an ambulance, a forensic van, and the DCPD to a city street. Detective Evan Garrett squatted down to look more closely at the body of the dead woman. She was probably in her mid-thirties. She had honey-blonde hair, and nice body, well... before the impact with the car, anyway. She had manicured nails and nice teeth; not exactly the type you'd think to find running around without clothes in a somewhat dubious part of town. No clothes equaled no ID, unless a purse or the clothes turned up somewhere. If she hadn't been naked, she probably would have been chalked up as just a pedestrian fatality, but in addition to being naked, there were adhesive marks on her wrists and ankles. Kinky sex gone wrong was always a possibility, but somehow Evan thought not. The part of her torso not bloodied seemed to be coated with something slightly shiny. He touched a gloved finger to it. It was greasy. That was weird. Maybe it was massage oil? Or Vaseline? He'd have to wait for the forensic people to do their thing. *** Wednesday, September 20, 2006 It took a little less than a week for the body of the Jane Doe to be autopsied and analyzed. In the same time, a missing persons report appeared, matching her description. Dr. Marna St. John, English professor at Holsinger College, had not been to work since the previous Thursday. The autopsy report showed she had been raped but no semen was present. She had been drugged with scopolamine. The adhesive residue on her wrists and ankles was consistent with duct tape. Her clothes had never been found, nor was a purse or anything else she might have carried with her that night. Detective Garrett interviewed every member of the English department, faculty, grad students, and staff. The only possibly applicable information he found were the names of the two men she had dated recently. Both were mildly distressed by her death and had iron-clad alibis for the night in question. Frustrated, Evan left the case folder on his desk, even though he moved on to other cases. Every few days, he would glance at it, read parts, make a few phone calls; but by and large, it gathered dust.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 6

Chapter 2

Physical Evidence

Saturday, October 14, 2006

The George Washington Memorial Parkway was a tree-lined drive out of the heart of Washington, DC, complete with scenic overlooks for tourists. When walking their dogs at such places, people didn't usually expect to find a dead body. A retired couple sat on the low wall bordering the overlook; their golden retriever sat restlessly at their feet. The sun shone through the branches of the trees left partially bare by the autumn weather, but it only halfway warmed the cool air. DC police mixed with a small assortment of federal people as the body was photographed. Forensic technicians roamed the leaf-strewn, muddy slope, looking for evidence. Special Investigative Services Agent Stuart Eisler squatted beside the body. He was a man of moderate height, stocky in build, with dark blond hair that was beginning to gray a little at the temples. He hypothesized a car had stopped in the darkness, hastily dumping a body, a quick trunk slam, and the car whisking away into the night. There would have been no witnesses. Time to execute the dump? Probably less than five minutes. The body was only just beginning to shows signs of decomposition. The weather had been chilly the past week. That would have slowed the process down somewhat. The body was a slender, almost anorexicly thin female, probably in her early twenties, Caucasian, naked, a single stab wound to the center of her chest. Dirt and leaf debris clung to her skin. It looked like she'd been carelessly tossed over the low stone wall of the overlook some fifteen feet up the bank, and she'd probably rolled a number of times after she was thrown down the slope. Stuart wasn't sure, but he thought he could see old, half-healed needle tracks on the inside of one elbow. Drug buy gone bad just didn't fit, especially considering the naked part. Stuart watched a technician pick up a small red item from the ground. He stood up and walked toward the forensic tech and flashed his federal ID. "SIS," Stuart said. "Can I have look after you bag it?" The other man looked a little dubious and studied the ID for a moment. "Um, I guess so." "I'll give it back, I promise." Stuart smiled at the man. He waited until the tech had placed the small item in the bag and duly labeled it. The tech handed it to him. The bag now contained a small chunk of red wax, or at least that's what it looked like. Candle wax? Possibly, but that wasn't the most interesting thing. There was something crudely etched into the surface: a pointy angle with a slash through the tip and yet another mark horizontally across it. It was weird, and yet it was exactly what he was looking for. Stuart had seen something similar in a vision. The image had been even more vague in his head, but he knew instinctively that this was what he'd seen. He glanced at the tech, who was waiting with only slight impatience. "I'm going to take a couple of pictures and then you can have it back," he reassured the man. He pulled a sophisticated digital camera off his shoulder and took several photos before handing the

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 7

bag back. Then he slowly climbed back up the slope to a dark blue H2 parked, along with a number of other vehicles, in the overlook parking area. Stuart Eisler was a member of Special Investigative Services, a small, highly secretive federal agency. He had spent sixteen years in the CIA before being recruited to SIS. His top-notch field experience, combined with the fact he had certain clairvoyant Talents, made him an invaluable asset to SIS. His Talent was not exactly the sort of thing generally known in "The Company," not that his psychic Talents were enormous or fabulously reliable. They weren't, but for an agency like SIS, which specialized in cases that left other agencies baffled or things so strange they defied all logic, any edge was gratefully taken. The image of a red object in the dirt, surrounded by trees and fallen leaves, near the river, had haunted his dreams for more than a week. There was something deeply wrong connected with this body, and he couldn't begin to put his finger on it. Maybe the connection would come, and maybe it wouldn't. A hefty amount of good, old-fashioned investigation certainly might help. He'd get Fiona Mills, the SIS techno-geek, to upload the image when he got back to the office, and hopefully find something to compare it to. Maybe it would turn out to have some nice, mundane explanation, but he rather doubted it. *** Sunday, October 15, 2006 Derek Montgomery scanned the newspaper, specifically the local section, for the twelfth day in a row. The body had been found yesterday. It rated a two-paragraph mention at the bottom of the page. Nobody had come knocking on his door in the fraternity house asking awkward questions. He and Mark had been exceedingly careful. He lifted a nearly empty bottle of Glenfiddich single malt whisky off the top of his laptop computer and stowed it on a shelf on the far side of his room. The fraternity house rooms were nowhere near as large as his room at home, but compared to a standard dorm room, they were palatial. He sat in front of his computer, popped it open, and called up the website for his bank account. He had put in numerous requests to the executors of his trust fund to increase his monthly allowance. The demands had been repeatedly denied. Two thousand dollars a month was an absolutely insignificant amount. It barely covered the payment on his Porsche and the cost of a dozen decent meals out. He was eternally furious that the trust fund set up by his grandfather covered the cost of any school he wished to attend, but gave him such a pathetic amount for expenses. The entire one hundred and eighty-four million dollars would not be his to access until his thirtieth birthday, unless all five members of the trustee board unanimously agreed to advance the date. Derek opened an email from the one of the trustees with mixed curiosity and dread. It stated that, although access to the lump sum of the trust was still firmly denied, a decision had been reached to increase his monthly allowance to three thousand dollars. He was elated but still frustrated. The ritual had worked on some level, and yet had only given him part of what he'd intended for it to accomplish.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 8

Weeks ago, Mark, one of his frat brothers, had blearily confided to him over a bottle of tequila that he had "borrowed" a book that belonged to the Mnemosyne Sect. He'd heard a rumor of its power from a graduating frat brother last year. After having seen it at the initiation rite, he had paid particular attention to where it was stored. Mark told of his attempt to force Dr. Marna St. John to become hopelessly devoted to him. And how something had gone drastically wrong, and she'd ended up dead. Derek had been impressed by the sheer, meticulous attention to detail taken by his friend, and absolutely fascinated by the fact that such a thing might even be possible. It just seemed to defy all logic. Over another late night, minus the tequila this time, they had retrieved the book using Mark's key to the ritual room. They had jointly pored over the book. Derek found a ritual whose end result seemed to be an increase in monetary prosperity. That sounded right up his alley. There were different instructions for various levels of strength. The simplest required a few drops of blood and a handful of arcane supplies. The most complicated demanded a human sacrifice. That notion really threw Mark. Rape was one thing, but murder was a far more serious. They had argued back and forth for several days before a decision was finally reached. They had picked someone who was likely to be dead soon anyway, someone... disposable. More days were spent acquiring candles, more scopolamine, along with the closest easily acquired approximation of belladonna, i.e. atropine, and a painter's drop cloth for ease of clean up. The hunt for a victim had provoked more arguing between the fraternity brothers. Mark was being pathetically moral about the whole thing, but only in fits and starts. One minute he was avowing that Marna's death had been purely accidental and he never wanted to be responsible for a death again. In another moment, he was absolute desperate to revisit the buzz of power he'd experienced from the ritual. In the end, they'd found themselves in one of the roughest sections of inner-city DC and had "hired" the most pathetic, strung-out prostitute they saw. It only took a few moments to inject her with a sedative and watch as she passed out on the car seat. The ritual had gone flawlessly, and the power high as they sacrificed the girl in the name of a demon called Telaroth had been incomparable. Getting rid of the body had been thought out well in advance. It also went off without a hitch. Derek sat staring at his computer screen long enough that the screen saver kicked in. It had worked and yet... not quite. There were quite a large number of rituals in the grimoire. Maybe it hadn't been the right one The book had been returned to its place in the mahogany cabinet, in case someone missed it. He remembered several other rituals that he and Mark had considered. Telaroth seemed to play a key role in more than one, as did blood sacrifice. It was risky. Very risky. But, oh... the rush had been better than any drug he had ever tried. It was better than expensive liquor, maybe even better than sex. He had to get his hands on the book again. If he had gotten this close... there had to be a way to grab the whole prize.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 9

Chapter 3

Body Disposal

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

Disemboweled, ew, that was an unpleasant word. It was, however, the only word that leaped to mind. Agent John Benchley stood in an empty lot behind a strip mall on the outskirts of Washington, DC. The grass was long and weed choked and the morning air bitterly cold. He'd flipped his badge open to show one of the uniformed police officers at the scene so that he was allowed access, then he walked toward the center of the crime scene. A man from the coroner's office was kneeling carefully beside the naked body of an adult male, with a probable age of about fifty. His chest and abdomen had been ripped open, leaving his intestines and other bits littering the grass beside him. The body had been found by a young man named Rory Jackson, cutting across the lot to catch a bus. Rory's first reaction had been to take a whole raft of pictures with his cell phone and send them to some of his buddies. He'd belatedly realized that someone might think he had somehow been responsible, and better judgment finally kicked in. He'd dialed 911 and reported it. At least a dozen members of the DCPD were on the scene now. Rory Jackson had been duly questioned, statement taken, and finally allowed to leave, with warnings that he might be contacted later for more information, so the address and phone number had better be correct. The forensics unit van was just pulling up, Benchley noted. John Benchley was not DCPD. He was the head of Special Investigative Services, a government agency loosely umbrellaed under Homeland Security. His small group dealt with... the weird, the paranormal, the supernatural, the extraterrestrial, and the lunatic fringe all rolled into one. Benchley was currently wondering which category this case might fall into. *** Yards away, one of the DCPD detectives watched the man with the federal badge clipped to his belt. The detective's name was Evan Garrett. He eyed the government man, more like scrutinized him. The man was tall, probably a touch over six feet, intense blue eyes, straight brown hair cut almost military short, well muscled, with a straight nose. An artist would have proclaimed him gorgeous, a hint of the pre-Raphaelite look. The wind was whipping through his hair and tearing at his leather jacket; his arms were crossed as he observed the coroner. Evan was curious. He wondered what had drawn one of the federal people to what, at least on the surface, appeared to be a routine, if somewhat gruesome, crime scene. It was a homicide in all probability, since it seemed pretty unlikely that the man on the ground could've achieved that level of damage on himself. Not to mention lack of any obvious weapons lying about. There was something odd about this scene, though. Evan couldn't quite put a finger on it. He thought about the location. They were behind a strip mall, in an empty lot, with a set of apartment buildings bordering the other side. The apartments fell in the mid-price range, making

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 10

them popular with young urban professionals. It seemed plausible that someone might have noticed screaming and would have dialed 911, but no call had come the night before. His brief glance at the body, however, made him think that this was really just a body dump, and not the actual murder site. For one thing, there didn't seem to be anywhere near enough blood, given the injuries. He supposed the autopsy report would confirm whether or not the body had been moved after death. Evan walked along the perimeter of the weedy and overgrown lot. He wasn't sure what he was looking for. At the far corner, he noticed a scrap of paper caught in the weeds. He squatted down to look at it. It wasn't a candy wrapper or cigarette pack or any of the usual trash one expected to find. It looked like a torn scrap of notebook paper. He stood up and flagged one of the forensic techs. The man took photos and bagged it. "Mind if I have a look before you stow it?" asked Evan. The man shrugged and handed to him. "Just give it back when you're done," said the tech. "Sure." Evan stood there studying it. Definitely looked like notebook paper. There was a weird little doodle on it in blue ink. It kind of reminded him of a "less than" sign, but with little curves on the tips of the open end and some sort of curly loop bisecting the middle. There might have originally been something else drawn to the left, but whatever it was had been torn off. It was probably somebody's random scribble while they were killing time. But still... There was something naggingly familiar about it. It would probably turn out to be a symbol used by some punk rock band. "What'd you find?" said a voice beside him. Evan looked up. It was the Fed. "Maybe nothing. Piece of paper. Weird scribble on it. I don't know why, it just sort of caught my attention." "John Benchley, SIS." He held out his hand and Evan shook hands with him. "Evan Garrett, DCPD." *** Benchley had been watching all that was going on at the crime scene, but specifically he'd paid attention to the man who now stood before him. The gold badge hanging on a lanyard around his neck proclaimed the man to be a detective. Evan was roughly the same height as Benchley, but thinner, with short-cut, curly brown hair and green eyes. Benchley noticed the long, slender fingers holding the evidence bag. They made him think of a pianist. "May I?" Benchley asked. Evan handed him the sample. John turned it over and glanced at the back, then stood gazing at it for a good minute or so. "So, think it's junk?" Evan asked.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 11

"Not sure. But I'm sort of thinking it's not." "Why?" "Kind of resembles a marking we found with another body," John admitted. "Other body?" "About four weeks ago. Female, single stab wound to the heart. There was a piece of a candle found at the scene. Someone had carved a symbol into it. I think the marking was similar. Don't quote me on that. I don't have the file with me." "So what's SIS?" asked Evan. "Special Investigative Services. We're federal. We handle some of the more... unusual cases in the metro area." "Cult stuff?" "Sort of." "Think we have a serial on the loose?" "I think it's more complicated than that." He handed the bag back to Evan, then he fished a business card out of his wallet. "If you see the symbol again, call me." Handing the card to the detective, John turned and strode off. *** Wednesday, October 25, 2006 -- Late afternoon John Benchley walked into his office and shut the door, relishing the silence for just a moment. He sat down in the chair at his desk. Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the blinds and created a glare on the monitor of his computer. He ignored it as he kicked off his shoes and crossed his legs on the seat of the chair. Too many thoughts surged through his head, and he needed a few minutes alone. He was sorely tempted to send the entire team home so that he would be by himself in the building. John rested his elbows on the edge of the desk and closed his eyes, propping his forehead on laced fingers. This latest case was infuriatingly difficult. Little pieces hinted at dark motives and even darker actions, but it seemed to be impossible to get a handle on who or even why. Right at that moment, his office was blissfully quiet. It didn't used to be his office at all. It used to be Sean's. Sean Walker was the founder and onetime head of SIS, now deceased, like so many other friends John had known. He opened his eyes for a moment and looked across the room at a framed photo, parked somewhat haphazardly on the top of a file cabinet. It showed three men, arms around each other: Sean, Stuart, and himself. It was taken at one of those appalling

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 12

Christmas parties that were supposed to foster some sort of camaraderie between different government agencies. John had his hand behind Stuart's head, making the "rabbit ears" gesture. Stuart had his tongue stuck out, and Sean was obviously laughing. None of them had been exactly sober. It had been taken by Fiona as sort of a joke. She'd scrawled "the SISy boys in Action" across the bottom of the picture with a permanent marker. Sean had thought the picture was hysterical and had gone so far as to buy a frame and park it in his office in plain view. He said it reminded him that, just now and then, they could pretend to lead normal lives, back when this used to be his office. Sean's death had been so utterly pointless. On his way home, Sean had stopped at a convenience store to buy a soda. While he was there, a junkie had tried to rob the place. When the strung-out idiot had jammed a gun in the face of the young female clerk, threatening to kill her because she couldn't open the safe, Sean had pulled his own gun. The clerk had been shot, but she'd survived, just barely. Sean died in a pool of his own blood. John had known he was being groomed to be Sean Walker's successor. Repeated jokes had been made about how, when Sean retired in about a decade, John was going to have to learn to negotiate the morass of paperwork and all the petty politics their tiny agency was forced to play. One year ago, SIS had moved from cramped, inadequate quarters in Alexandria to a disused office building on the edge of Crystal City. The building had been practically gutted and then extensively remodeled. Six months ago, John stood at an open grave and wondered just how he was going to manage to fill the shoes of his boss and mentor. Four months ago, half the top floor of the "new" SIS building had been turned into living space. John's divorce from Liz had been finalized and he found that going "home" to the empty condo with half its contents gone was just as bad as falling asleep in the bunkroom on the third floor of the building. Two months ago, he'd moved the remaining contents of the condo into the top floor of the building. More than half of it was still in boxes. Either there was no time to unpack, or, if he had time, he was too uninspired. Sean's office was now his and it was still a mess. There was a huge government-issue metal desk on which sat a state of the art computer. The bookcase under the window bulged with books, binders, boxes, and a plastic skull with markings indicating a bullet trajectory, used in a case from last year. A padded chair, shoved against the wall, held his jacket, flung there along with a fat folder of papers and his PDA. All the stuff in the office was either his now or agency stuff, except the photo. He somehow just couldn't bear to remove it. John decided he was desperate for a cup of coffee, and he needed to know if Fiona had come up with anything on the symbol that Stuart had found. He pushed back from the desk and walked out into the main workspace.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 13

Fiona Mills was a petite woman with waist-length, fiery red hair pulled back into a tight braid. She didn't exactly fit the traditional motif for computer geek, but oh lord, she was good. She could hack code with the best of them, make just about any program jump through hoops, and her concept of fun was designing a spiffy graphics menu program for a disk of digital photos and video clips for one of the recently closed cases. She was currently glancing back and forth between two different video monitors on her desk, programming code displayed on one screen and a graphic being gradually rendered on another. John walked slowly across the room toward her. "Any luck with Stuart's symbol?" he asked. She glanced up at him. "It bears a slight resemblance to several mathematical symbols. And to a few signatures used by artists, both the painting and the music kind. It bears resemblance to some science fiction fantasy lettering and to some ritual magic stuff. No matches. Although, since we think it's tied to a murder, I'm kind of leaning away from the math and artsy stuff." "Okay, try to narrow it down to, say, maybe a dozen possibles. Then give them to Stuart and see what he thinks." She nodded and kept typing.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 14

Chapter 4

Autopsy Report

Friday, October 27, 2006

The precinct was actually somewhat quiet for a change. Evan Garrett sat with his feet up on his desk, a folder on his legs, reading the autopsy report for the body found in the lot behind the strip mall. The coffee in his cup was pretty appalling. It was industrial strength and could probably be used to strip paint. His fingers idly traced the edge of the cup while he read. The victim had been identified as a Harold Zumdal, age fifty-eight, with a record of petty larceny and small-time drug possession charges; essentially, a nobody existing at the bottom edge of society. The cause of death was stated as blood loss due to massive trauma to the abdomen and chest. The wound was most likely caused by a non-serrated blade at least six inches in length. Time of death was approximately seven to eight hours prior to when the body was found. Trace evidence included some dark cotton fibers and a greasy substance. A Lumalight examination had revealed subtle markings on the chest on either side of the wound, probably drawn in the greasy stuff. Evan pulled out a photo. One side of the wound displayed a long, straight line crossed by a short pair of parallel lines at an angle. The other side showed a spiral. He flipped back to the report. The substance used to draw these marks had tentatively been identified as some kind of oil. Further ID was pending. His brain made a mental leap. The piece of paper! He lifted his feet off the desk and began sorting through the piles of folders. It took a minute to find the photos of other evidence from the scene. He pulled out a picture of the torn piece of notebook paper and laid it beside the autopsy photos. The doodle on the paper had a spiral that resembled one of the marks on the body. Well, sort of. He got the impression the mark on the body had probably been painted on with a brush. There seemed to be a hint of lines, like those left by bristles. It was however, a tenuous connection. The federal guy had implied there might be a link to a previous body. He grabbed a sheet of paper and a pencil and copied first the doodle from the paper. Behind the first squiggle, the line with the crosshatch. Something was missing. He had no idea what. He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was more than an hour past when he was supposed to get off duty. He took the sheet of paper he'd drawn on and tucked it in his pocket, walking out of the building and heading for home. *** Saturday, October 28, 2006 The following day, it took a full hour for Evan Garrett to drive to Hillsboro, Virginia from DC.

His twin sister, Brigid, had invited him to come hang out and visit since he had a day off. She

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 15

was a graphic artist, and her husband, Scott, worked near DC for an environmental engineering

company.

Evan parked in the gravel driveway at the top of the hill, next to the white plastered house.

Brigid lived in a nearly two hundred year old farmhouse with her husband and two small

children. A heavy layer of leaves choked the fencerow on the far side of the yard. A small barn

could be seen behind the house, and he knew it held two horses. He knocked on the back door,

and a four-year-old boy opened it.

"Uncle Evan! I saw your car out the window!" said Liam.

"Guess that means you were standing on the window sill again," teased Evan.

"Well... yeah..." Liam looked guilty.

"And he knows perfectly well he's not supposed to. Go tell your dad Uncle Evan's here," said

Brigid, coming into the kitchen with an infant propped on her hip. Liam went racing out the

door. The resemblance between Evan and Brigid was appalling obvious: curly brown hair, same green eyes, similar features but softer. "Here, hold her while I punch down the bread dough." She thrust the infant into Evan's hands. Evan cradled her to his shoulder. Five-month-old Maeve was warm, wiggly bundle. Evan leaned on the edge of the sink while Brigid squashed the dough back into the bowl. The kitchen was an eclectic mix of old and new. Hewn beams graced the low ceiling, and the walls were plaster over stone. A laptop stood open on a counter beside a stylus and digital pad. A fieldstone fireplace bordered the right side and stood ready with stacked logs. "So, do I dare ask how work is going?" said Brigid.

"It's... going..." replied Evan.

Brigid glanced over her shoulder at him. "How many people are dead this time?"

"One, maybe a second."

"Maybe? You're not sure if they're dead?" she teased.

"Well, yeah, they're dead. I'm just not sure if the cases are actually connected or not."

"Sounds vague," she said.

Evan dug in his pocket for the folded sheet of paper. He'd been dragging it around since

yesterday.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 16

"Have a look at this," he said, and laid the paper on the big rectangular table. "It looks familiar. I

don't know why."

She looked at it and was silent for a little while as she turned the dough into rolls and jammed

them into a pie plate.

"It sort of reminds me of a sigil," she said slowly.

"For?"

"I don't know. It's not one I'm familiar with."

Evan paced the kitchen, jiggling the baby, who was squirming. A sigil was a magical symbol

sometimes used in ritual magic as a focus or means of summoning an entity, good, bad, or otherwise. Why did he know this? Because he was raised pagan, in a family that actively belonged to a coven. It was none of that Hollywood-style garbage; instead, it was a very gentle, earth-based religion that taught that divinity came in both male and female aspects. His religion revered life and practiced ritual magic, and firmly taught that with power came responsibility. "This is tied into the murders?" asked Brigid.

"Maybe."

"What is wrong with people? As if our world doesn't have enough wicked shit going on as it is!"

"You'll get no argument from me."

"Are they using it for death magic?" she asked.

"I don't know. It would be helpful if I knew what it stood for," replied Evan.

Liam came darting back into the kitchen, several toys clutched in his hands. "See my

Transformers! I've got Optimus Prime and Jetfire and this one is a bad guy!"

"Very cool. So where's your dad?" Evan asked. "Shoveling horse--"

"Liam!" snapped his mother, and Evan tried not to laugh.

"Poop," finished Liam. "He said it was gonna take a while."

Evan sat down in the middle of the kitchen floor and spent the next ten minutes letting his

nephew tell him enthusiastically about the toys. Evan noticed the baby was rubbing her face on

his shirt and nibbling at the fabric.

"Maeve thinks she's starving," he said, and handed Maeve to her mother. Brigid plopped in a

chair and hitched up her shirt to nurse her child.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 17

"Do you mind if I scan that sigil thing later? I might be able to find a match somewhere," said Brigid. "Not at all. Have at it. I'm getting nowhere fast." The rest of the afternoon was low key. Playing with Liam and eating dinner with his sister's family was a welcome respite from work stress for Evan. Brigid had veered conversation away from his work and grilled him on his love life. Yes, he was seeing someone. No, he wasn't sure if it was serious. It was a woman this time. His sister had teased him about that, too, as the last one had been a guy. Brigid had always been aware that he was bisexual, and had even gone so far as to "fix him up" a few times with both men and women. Evan drove back into DC late in the evening. His thoughts jumped erratically between the autopsy report information, the symbol on the body, and the federal agency that seemed to be showing an interest. SIS. He hadn't heard of that one before. Restless from driving, when he got home he attacked the Internet, looking for information on SIS. There was precious little to be found except for an address and phone number. John Benchley was listed as the director, and there was a little 2x2 photo of the man Evan had met. There were a couple of references to SIS on other government websites, but all in all, very little. He sat staring at the screen for several minutes. Evan had a buddy at the NSA and wondered if he might know anything. Maybe Evan would give him a call sometime tomorrow. *** Sunday, October 29, 2006 From: Brigidsbeautifulart

To: EGarrett

Subject: Sigil

Hey Ev',

Been messing with the pic. Haven't found a match, but I'm leaning in the direction of VERY

BAD. The little curves off to the right are just way too similar to some demon based ones I ran

across. Be careful or I am SO gonna kick your butt.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 18

Chapter 5

Lab Report

Sunday, October 29, 2006 -- 6 p.m.

At the end of the day, Detective Garrett sat at his desk typing up statements. Kyle Matheson, another detective, cruised by and tossed a couple of sheets of paper stapled together on his desk. "What's that?" asked Evan irritably. He glanced up at his colleague. Matheson was short, black, and spent all his off hours in the gym. At first glance, he always gave the impression of someone who liked to bench press Volkswagens for fun. "Something from forensics, they said to pass it on to you." Evan sighed and left it lying on his desk for another hour. When he finally got around to picking it up, it was both weird and confusing. The lab had finished with the analysis of the oil found on the body. The base was sunflower oil, mixed with DMSO, an organic solvent called dimethyl sulfoxide, but it was also laced with some other substances: atropine, scopolamine, and oxycodone. The narcotic, oxycodone, was available on the street, generally stolen from pharmacies and similar sources. Why on earth would you mix it with the other two? He looked up atropine on the Web and saw a reference to its historical source, nightshade, also known as belladonna. It did supposedly have some hallucinogenic properties, but the side effects sounded pretty nasty, things like dizziness, nausea, photophobia, and tachycardia. Still, some people used the stupidest things seeking the ultimate buzz. That left the third additive, scopolamine. Another plant-based drug, this one was from henbane, he noted. Also capable of producing hallucinations and delirium, it was once combined with morphine to produce an amnesiac state called twilight sleep, used quite a while back on women in labor. Hmmm, so maybe the oxycodone was being used as a substitute for the morphine. But why toss the atropine in? It seemed a pretty risky way to seek a high, especially when the streets held such things as ecstasy, cocaine, and crystal meth. He supposed those might remotely qualify as more predictable, if not exactly safer. Something nagged at the back of his mind again. There was something remotely familiar about the combination... He just wasn't sure what. ***

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 19

Sunday, October 29, 2006 -- 9 p.m. Inside the fraternity house, Derek walked up the stairs in search of Mark. They needed to talk. The ritual hadn't gone according to plan. Even getting rid of the body had been a fiasco. He knocked on Mark's door, and a muffled voice told him to hang on. A few minutes later, Mark poked his head out the door as it opened. "Hey, what's up, man?" Mark said. He was clad in boxers and nothing else. Behind him, Derek could see a well-built blonde girl in shorts and a bra sprawled lazily across the bed. "We need to figure out what went wrong last night and fix it," snapped Derek. "Oh... can this wait 'til later? I'm kinda busy." "I'm going down to the wine cellar for a while. You better be down in an hour." "Yeah... okay." Glancing at his watch, Mark shut the door. Derek stalked down three flights of stairs into the basement of the frat house. Among other things, it was actually a wine cellar and held a large rack with some three to four dozen wine bottles, but there were also six beer kegs parked against the wall, a remnant of last Friday's party. Gray cinderblock walls and beige tile gave the basement a cheap, industrial look. A metal door was set in one wall. It had both a standard deadbolt lock and a padlock. Derek fished a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked it. Once inside, he flipped on the light switch and locked the door behind him. The interior of the room was faced with gray marble tile and mahogany benches with padded, deep brown leather seats lining three of the walls. In one corner stood a mahogany cabinet, expensive and massive. He used another key to unlock that. Inside the doors of the chest were rows of drawers, making it resemble an apothecary chest. His goal was the huge, leather-bound book he had seen being used in the ritual weeks earlier. It really would have been much easier to keep the book in his room, but then there was the chance that someone might miss it. He wasn't really supposed to be using the grimoire at all, but what the hell good was having the knowledge and the resources if you couldn't use them? Besides, no one had specifically forbidden its usage... Usage, mmm, yeah. He must have missed something in the notes for the ritual they'd performed last night. *** Friday, November 3, 2006 In the middle of a grocery store parking lot, the car had eventually drawn the attention of the employees after remaining in the same space for five days. The police were notified. The car came back as stolen, having gone missing roughly two weeks before, and so an officer was dispatched to check it out. One good whiff of the stench emanating from the car prompted the

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 20

officer to pop the trunk. There was a body, a very, very dead and smelly body. All the appropriate people were called; detectives, forensics, coroner, ambulance, and tow truck. Evan Garrett's eyes watered a little as he looked at the body of a young black man lying sprawled in the trunk. The body looked to be perhaps in his early twenties, and there appeared to be two, no, make that possibly three bullet holes. Two in his chest and one in the head. Rigor had long since come and gone, and the early stages of decomposition were beginning to take hold. Matheson peered over his shoulder and mimed a gagging motion in the direction of the corpse. "Would you believe he actually had a driver's license on him? I ran it, and it came back with a long, long rap sheet of drug offenses. All of it petty stuff, gang-related as far as we can tell." "Marvelous. Rumors have it there's a gang war in the making," replied Evan. The word "drugs" made a little hint of an idea tickle at the back of his brain regarding that very weird combo found on the body in that field behind the strip mall. Something nagged at him. It was somehow familiar. Why was he making this connection? The body that lay in front of him had no connection to the prior one. Nothing was obviously similar. Nope, somehow it was merely the thought about the drugs that sparked some connection he just couldn't seem to wrap his brain around. Evan remembered the federal agent. What was the guy's name? Benchman? Benchley? And the brief conversation at that scene. He had said something about yet another body, and how there might be a connection. Evan had spent some time tracking down what little information on SIS he could find. His buddy from the NSA had little to say about the group. "They are freakin' weird," had been the major comment. "A batch of ghost-buster wannabees," had been the other description. Benchley had also suggested Evan talk to Taylor Vanderbilt over at the FBI, but Evan hadn't had time yet to get in touch. Forensic techs were taking pictures and samples and generally doing their jobs. It was going to be a long night. *** Hours later, Evan was driving toward home. He was bone tired. It had taken forever for the body to be collected, then ages for the car to be towed away. It would be nice to just fly over the Beltway and take an aerial shortcut to Dupont Circle. No traffic, no stoplights, just a straight flight there. Flying. That was it. His brain leaped on the connection. He took the next exit and headed back to the precinct. He dug through stacks of folders on his desk. Near the bottom of one heap was the file for Marna St. John. He flipped pages until he found the tox report. Scopolamine. It was an odd choice to drug someone with. He dug through another pile of folders. Evan found the one for Harold Zumdahl. He was the body from the lot. He also had a greasy substance found on his skin, and it contained among other things... scopolamine, plus it had atropine and oxycodone. He scrambled

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 21

through his brain. There was a connection. Evan just hadn't been able to grab that elusive thought until driving home. Flying, that was the word that triggered the association in his mind. Flying ointment was a semimythical/folklore type thing. Nightshade, henbane, and opium were supposedly used by "witches" of centuries past to aid in "flying." The actual flight was more along the lines of a drug-induced high than a real, physical flight. Okay, now for the why? In these days of heroin, ecstasy, and cocaine, who would decide such a dangerous mix was a better alternative? Taking the idea a little further, why did it show up in the bloodstream of a naked woman who had been raped and painted on a guy who had been killed and dumped in a vacant lot? He was definitely not liking where his mind was leading him. He knew full well that there were more things on this earth than the average twenty-first century person wanted to deal with. Was somebody trying to have their own go at "being a witch"? No, that didn't track. People were dead. Just seeking a high all too often resulted in the seeker ending up dead due to an overdose or just pure stupidity. The guy in the lot had very, very definitely been killed by someone else. Maybe someones. Were there hints of dark magic? Okay, that was a misnomer, too. He should know better than that. Magic was a tool, just like a knife or a gun. The "color" of the power lay in the intent. A scalpel in the right hands could save a life; equally so, a blade could kill. Slouched back in his desk chair, staring at the open files, Evan considered his conversation with the Fed. He couldn't claim he'd seen another incidence of the symbol, but this seemed like a connection. Okay, granted, it was kind of a stretch. His gut told him, though, that there was something to this. Evan just wasn't sure what the entire deal was yet. Should he call the Benchley guy? He had seemed... open-minded. Evan sat agonizing for a while over the idea of making a phone call. Talking to Feds was definitely not going to earn him any brownie points with the department. He glanced at the clock. One-thirty a.m. Christ, he needed some sleep. This was just going to have to wait 'til morning. He scribbled a few notes on a Post-it and stuck it to one of the folders and headed back in the direction of home a second time. *** Saturday, November 4, 2006 Over morning coffee and witness reports regarding the body found in the trunk, Evan glanced at the pair of files again. He picked up on yet another very minor detail that appeared to link the two cases. Sunflower oil. It had been found on the professor's skin, solo, with no obvious contaminants. But with Zumdahl, it had been, more or less, the base for the stuff painted on him. Sunflower oil was common. Walk into any decent-size grocery store and grab a bottle. Maybe he was clutching at straws. Benchley had mentioned a possible link to another case. He really needed to know more about that one. With great misgivings, Evan dialed the phone. Voice mail picked up. He took a deep breath.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 22

"This is Detective Evan Garrett from the DCPD. We met at a crime scene a few days ago, and you asked me to give you a call if I ran across a particular symbol again. Sorry I haven't, but I think I might have a different connection. I'd like to talk to you about it." He left his number, indicating it was his cell and not a precinct number. After he hung up, he sat there staring at the phone for a moment. He wasn't even entirely sure the federal guy wouldn't just blow him off, but he could say he'd tried. *** Sunday, November 5, 2006 The gang bangers were at it again. It never seemed to end. There was always some petty argument being blown insanely out of proportion. A couple of uniform cops were busily trying to keep the curious out of the crime scene and behind the tape. Evan flashed his badge and nodded at an officer he recognized. The man rolled his eyes and looked mind-numbingly bored. Evan sympathized. He crossed the sidewalk and bent over the body of a young, black male sprawled lifelessly on the sidewalk in front of a barber shop. It was a very rough neighborhood. Two obvious bullet holes pierced the victim's his body, one through his chest and another in his throat. The coroner's tech had pronounced him, and Garrett was waiting for the forensic team to finish. The cell phone on Evan's hip chirped. "Detective Garrett." "This is John Benchley from SIS. You left me a message saying you might have a connection or a lead on the case from the DB in the vacant lot." "Yeah, maybe. An odd drug called scopolamine. It's a prescription-type drug, not something you'd usually find on the street. I ran across it in another case. Um, can I ask you what you know about it?" "I've run across it. I agree, it's not exactly an average street drug." "Have you seen it in connection with any other murder victims?" "Yes," said Benchley. Evan gritted his teeth. The man was being difficult. He needed to try another tactic. "What do you know about the symbol?" "That sounds like you suspect you know something I don't." Benchley laughed a little. "Maybe. How much cult stuff do you deal with in a year?" "Two to four cases. Why?"

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 23

"Do you know what a sigil is? S-I-G-I-L."

"Yes. One of my tech people said she wondered if it might be one."

"Well, tell her I agree, then."

"So what's it for? Or maybe I should ask, what's it represent?"

"Haven't worked that out yet."

"Can we get together and compare notes?" asked Benchley.

Evan was surprised. Feds rarely shared information. There was, of course, no guarantee that

"compare notes" didn't actually translate to "tell me what you know and I'll tell you nothing."

"Um. I guess. I'm at a scene right now. Gang shooting sort of thing. Could be hours 'til I'm

done."

"This case isn't going anywhere. Even if I wish it was," lamented Benchley. "If you get done

anytime before midnight, call me. I'll meet you somewhere. Otherwise, maybe we can get

together sometime tomorrow."

"Okay, I'll do the best I can. Bye." Evan hung up. The slight rattle of wheels on the sidewalk

drew his attention. The ambulance crew was getting ready to transport the slain gang member.

*** Evan glanced at his watch. It was quarter to ten by the time the preliminary witness interviews were done and all the rest of the standard routine. He was starving. The guy had said anytime

before midnight. He thumbed the buttons of his cell as he started his car.

"Benchley," the man answered.

"Hey, this is Evan Garrett. I'm done. Finally. I'm going to go grab some food. I was

contemplating Denny's on McGruder Avenue. You still want to meet?"

"Definitely. I'll get there as soon as I can."

Evan sat in a booth and dumped sugar and cream into his coffee. Yeah, maybe caffeine at ten-

something at night was not a great idea, but neither was falling asleep at the wheel on the way home. He poked at his meal with his fork. His mind was stuck in a rut, turning over and over the idea of what Benchley wanted from him. "Haute cuisine it's not," said a voice, and he looked up. Agent Benchley wore jeans and a black leather jacket over a rugby shirt. Once again, Evan was struck by the thought that Benchley's dress sense didn't exactly follow the typical Fed motif.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 24

"So, this couldn't wait until tomorrow?" asked Evan. "I don't know. Sometimes it pays to be aggressive about the little things." Benchley flagged a waitress for coffee. "So, tell me about the drug connection. You said scopolamine? Isn't that the stuff they give people for motion sickness?" "Yeah, that's one use." Evan laughed. He spent the next couple of minutes telling Benchley about both cases, but he only hinted at an arcane connection. "Let's switch gears for a sec, back to the sigil. Starting with how you even know what it is," said Benchley. "Research." "You don't strike me as the spending thirty hours crawling through university stacks and websites type. It took my people five days to figure out what it might be. How long'd it take you?" Evan smiled a little. "Couple days and a drive. But I still have only half an answer. I don't know what it represents yet. Your turn." Benchley eyed him for a long moment before replying. "It represents the name of a demon called Telaroth... probably." His expression was solemn. He was looking for some sort of reaction, Evan decided. "So what's the deal? I'd be tempted to say a bunch of teenagers were playing out their dark fantasies, but... we've got two dead bodies. One of them was killed pretty messily, too. No, wait, you said, there was a prior one... That was part of the reason I left you the message." "Yes, there was a previous one that we think is connected, maybe," said Benchley. "You going to give me any details? Or am I going to have to scrounge through VICAP to try and dig it up?" asked Evan. Benchley regarded him in silence before replying. "White female. Early twenties. Hasn't been ID'd so far. Body was found off the GW Parkway, near an overlook. Single stab wound to the chest. The body was naked, some decomposition. Weather was pretty cold that week. Not a lot of insect activity, so time of death is a bit of an estimate. A piece of wax was found at the scene. It had markings in it, probably carved with a knife of some kind. It's where the sigil was first seen." "September, October, and then almost November. If it's serial, maybe the guy is escalating? When was the female body found?" "Fourteenth of October."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 25

"So what's your take on this?" asked Evan. "Serial killer with a real kink? "No, I don't think so." "You think it's more than one person? Some sort of cult thing?" asked Evan. "I think, right at the moment, I'll plead the Fifth until I get some more information." Evan decided the man was being cagey. "All right. Any chance you'll let me read your case report? Or at least let me know if scopolamine was found either in or on the body?" "Mmm... Truthfully, I don't have a clue about the scopolamine, and I'll get back to you about the case report. Got another question for you, though. You didn't laugh at my commentary on the sigil. Why?" Evan thought about that for a moment. There was no chance in hell he was going to get into an alternative religions discussion with a guy he barely knew, so he went for plausible but vague. "Anything that involves people getting murdered is serious business, even if the motivating reasons are kind of messed up." Benchley sat looking at him. Evan sensed a level of curious uncertainty from the other man. He was being assessed, but for what? He had to admit he found Benchley a likable guy. Definitely not a typical Fed, Benchley had already been far more forthcoming with information than he could have been. The man finished his coffee and bid Evan good night. *** Monday, November 6, 2006 John Benchley leaned back against the countertop of the kitchen in the main workroom of SIS, coffee cup in hand. He was silently watching the man across the room. Stuart Eisler was sitting at his desk, staring almost blankly at the wall, and doodling on a pad of paper. That was bad news, probably. If Stuart was drawing, more than likely, he was drawing something he saw, and it wasn't going to be something he saw with his eyes. He had a flair for clairvoyance, but it was erratic and unpredictable. It only showed up in fits and spurts, and frequently deserted him if he tried to force it. Still, for a group like SIS, it was sometimes invaluable. John wandered back into his office. If Stuart thought whatever he had drawn was important, he would eventually seek John out. In the meantime, John had a personnel file to read. He accessed the DCPD personnel records and looked up Evan Garrett. The man had risen through the police ranks fairly quickly. This made Benchley wonder if the guy really knew what to kiss and when, but there were no commendations or other "jump out at you" notables. However, when John looked at the case load record, impressive didn't even come close. Evan had an absolutely phenomenal closure rate: ninety-four percent. For a city as large as DC, that was amazing. But was it all just straightforward stuff, gang shootings and domestic violence?

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 26

He read through the synopses of several dozen reports. A man stuffed up a ventilation shaft in an office building had been killed by a coworker. Another man had been murdered by poisoning with snake venom found in his insulin. There was also a death by drowning in a fish tank... Garrett seemed to get the weird ones, the out of the box, screwed-up logic ones. Benchley was definitely interested in this detective. It seemed the longer SIS functioned, the stranger the cases got. Maybe it was just a symptom of knowing what to look for, or hearing hoof beats and learning to expect rhinoceroses. Evan Garrett just might be worth headhunting.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 27

Chapter 6

Victim Selection

Wednesday, November 8, 2006

The traffic light turned red as Derek gunned his way through it. Fucking car salesman! How dare the little piss-ant claim he wouldn't qualify for a lease on the newest edition of the Lamborghini Countach, even with the trade in of his Porsche? Oh, how he wanted to squash that man like a bug. Derek slammed his fist on the edge of the steering wheel. He almost totally missed stopping at the next red light, slamming on his brakes with squeal of rubber. He glanced at the building on his left: Burns, Myles, and Mori. He knew the son of the CEO and been in the building a couple of times. A thought slowly began to coalesce in his brain. The building had a central courtyard that was a grassy garden. It was fully enclosed within walls. Okay, granted, one of the walls was a twelvefoot high concrete privacy fence that bordered the street, but it was secure, open to the air, and Derek was willing to bet he could manage to "borrow" a key to the exterior maintenance door from his buddy. After all, the guy had claimed he had once used the place to seduce a beautiful co-ed. It would be a convenient place for the next ritual and -- oh, God damn Chad the car salesman Forsythe -- would make a very nice sacrifice. Back at the fraternity house, Derek flopped onto his bed and wondered idly if now was a good time for a drink. Hugh Jefferies came into his room and shut the door behind him. Hugh was an average height, twenty-one year old senior with dark, curly hair. "Hey, what's up?" Derek asked casually. "I have a question for you." "Uh-huh. So?" "I want to know what you were doing with the grimoire for the Mnemosyne sect." Derek sat up slowly, his mind churning. "Why do you want to know?" he countered. "I know there's more to that book than sex magic and the hocus pocus that the old farts are so into. I think you've been doing some dirty deeds without their knowledge," Hugh said. "And I want in or I'm going to rat you out." Derek gazed at Hugh narrowly. It was a calculated risk. He and Mark had discussed the need for a third person to spread out the tasks and the cleanup and aid in alibis if needed. He hadn't counted on blackmail, though. But if he played it just right, Hugh would soon be in just as deep as they were, and then blackmail would be a pretty useless gesture. "Okay. Just what exactly is it you want, though?" asked Derek.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 28

"I want... control," said Hugh slowly.

"Control of what? Me?"

"No, no. Of me. Of my life. I am so tired of kowtowing to my father's whims. 'Hugh, I want you

to go to Holsinger College.' 'Hugh, I want you to major in poli sci'.' 'Hugh, I want you to learn how to sway the lobbyists.' Christ! I am so fucking tired of his political bullshit! I want the ability to make a choice for myself for a change. Would you believe they even have a girl picked out that they'd like me to marry?" "Face like a horse and weighs four hundred pounds?" Derek snickered.

Hugh grinned a little. "No, not quite. More like invisible. Plain brown hair, plain brown eyes,

dresses like she's fifty, and the personality of a doorknob. But she comes from a powerful family,

like I give a shit."

"I need to do a little errand tomorrow night. How 'bout you come along then?" suggested Derek.

"What for?"

"I need to pick up a blank prescription pad from my father's office."

"Need some uppers?" asked Hugh.

"Nope. Scopolamine. I'll explain the reason later."

Hugh gave him a narrow look. "If you're jerking my chain, I'll turn you in."

"Fair enough, but I'm not," said Derek

***

Friday, November 10, 2006 -- 2 p.m.

Evan glanced at the text message on his phone. It was from Renee, his girlfriend. He opened it. It

read: R WE ON 4 2NITE? He smiled a little. They had dated just long enough for more than a dozen of their dates to get interrupted by his work. She was amazingly understanding. Her own job as an executive assistant for the CEO of a biotech firm had pretty standard hours. They were going to a jazz concert at the Barns at Wolf Trap. He typed a message back, YES, BUT IM ON CALL ***

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 29

Friday, November 10, 2006 -- 7 p.m. Renee had on a long-sleeved, black sweater dress that hugged her figure. It was a nice figure, too, thought Evan, looking at the curves of her body. He was ambivalent about the dress. The very idea of wool against his skin made him itchy. With luck, the dress wouldn't stay on very long after the concert. She slid into the seat of his car and he shut the door. "So, how likely are we to get dragged out of the concert by a murder?" she asked as he pulled onto the street. "No clue. It's a Friday. But the weather's pretty cold. That usually tends to damp down the violence a little." He glanced at her while the car idled at a traffic light. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a very demure chignon held by a dark-colored clip. He twisted in his car seat and kissed her. She pushed him away gently. "You don't get to mess up my makeup until later," she said. He merely gazed at her for a moment, then smiled. It sounded like plans for the end of the evening were looking up. *** Friday, November 10, 2006 -- 11 p.m. It was going smoothly, very smoothly. Car salesman Chad had been more than willing to meet Derek Montgomery and a buddy for a drink to discuss other financing options. Trust a car salesman to always be on the look out for a way to close a deal. It had been almost insanely easy to slip a "roofie" in his drink and then, under the guise of offering a drunk friend a safe ride home, pile him into the car and leave. Derek had enlisted help from Mark to swipe the keys belonging to the CEO's son for a couple hours and make a duplicate of the one that opened the maintenance gate to the garden. Now for the main event. Hugh was busily duct-taping Chad Forsythe to the stone bench near the center of the garden. Black candles always seemed to burn more messily than the red ones. Chad lay on the big stone bench in the center of the garden. Fucking car salesman. Derek knew he was going to derive immense pleasure from this. They had stripped Chad naked, and Mark painted the sigils on his body with the mix of drugs that would open his mind to power of the ritual at the moment of death. This was a different ritual. The one they'd used before had been strictly geared toward financial acquisition. This called directly on the power and knowledge of the demon Telaroth, rather than just asking for his influence. The demon would take temporary possession of Derek's body and

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 30

impart the knowledge needed to influence others. Maybe he'd finally figured out a way to get what he wanted out of the trust fund idiots. Mark began the incantation while Derek held the blade in both hands above the man duct-taped to the stone bench. "I do invocate and conjure thee, O spirit Telaroth. O being of power, we do offer thee this life in return for your knowledge." Derek could feel the power building. He drove the blade straight down into the chest of his sacrifice. Behind him, the door that led back into the building that surrounded the garden opened. There was a high-pitched shriek of terror. Oh, shit. A man in a suit and a woman in a skimpy red dress and heels stood frozen in the open doorway. "Run!" Derek snapped at Mark and Hugh. There was a mad scramble to gather up at least part of their accoutrements and yank out keys. They took off out the narrow maintenance door at a sprint. *** Friday, November 10, 2006 -- 11:30 p.m. The concert was good, and Evan's pager remained silent all the way through. They headed back toward Renee's apartment, where she opened a bottle of wine and they actually made it through half the bottle before they got distracted. She sat in his lap, straddling his thighs while his hands pulled the clip loose from her hair. Her hair cascaded down past her shoulders, and his fingers threaded through it, drawing her down into a heated kiss. "Think we need to lose the dress," Evan mumbled as she began to unbutton his shirt. He scrunched the dress up past her hips. "It does have a zipper." She giggled and slid out of his lap. She reached her hand around and pulled the zipper down and shrugged her shoulders out of it. The dress puddled to the floor around her feet, and she stepped free. Oh, yeah, she definitely looked better out of that dress, he thought. She picked it up and slung it over her shoulder by one finger as she slowly sauntered in the direction of the bedroom. "Well, are you coming?" she asked over her shoulder. Evan left a trail of clothing as he followed. *** Renee was snuggled against him, a sleepy, satiated look on her face. Evan kissed her slowly, starting with her breast and moving up the side of her neck to her mouth. She sighed and flung an

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 31

arm over him, burying her face in his shoulder, drifting toward sleep. His fingers stroked down her back. All he felt was the softness of her skin and her slow descent into slumber. He closed his eyes, wishing she wasn't headblind. His empathic Talents weren't strong, but she had none. She was a psychic null, "headblind" being the slang term for it. She had obviously derived a lot of pleasure from their lovemaking, and he sensed she cared for him. Maybe she even loved him, but there was a profound emptiness within him. He could sense her emotions and a few scattered surface thoughts at times, but she couldn't return it. She would never feel his presence in her head, never know ecstasy not her own, or pain or love or even comfort. All those ephemeral things that were capable of blindsiding him if he wasn't careful to psychically shield his mind. Evan stared blindly at the ceiling, overcome by a desire to get up and leave. The sex had been good, very good in fact, and yet it was just a mechanical event that culminated in an endorphin rush. Maybe there wasn't anything else. The chances of him finding someone who was psi and appealing and interested and all those things that it took to create a relationship were probably nonexistent. He liked Renee. Did he love her? Was he just having a crisis of conscience? His cell phone vibrated, still attached to his belt on the floor on the far side of the bed. "Mmm, guess it could've gone off while we were occupied..." Renee whispered as he slid out of bed and picked it up. He glanced at the number. It was dispatch. "Garrett," he answered, and was told his presence was necessary at a crime scene on the north end of Adams Morgan. "Okay, I'll be there as soon as I can. Bye." He hastily began to dress. "I gotta go. Work." Renee sat up slowly. "That means someone is dead, doesn't it?" "Yeah, unfortunately." He kissed her, hauled on his shirt, and picked up his shoes on his way out the door. Driving toward Adams Morgan, he couldn't decide which was worse: the guilt or the relief at an excellent excuse not to spend the rest of the night.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 32

Chapter 7

Location Factors

Burns, Myles, and Mori owned a very upscale building. It was a large, U-shaped structure of gray brick and glass, with the center being a nicely manicured garden enclosed at the far end by a high concrete wall. A narrow steel door of equal height to the wall was the only maintenance access to the area, unless you entered through the building. That door currently hung open, guarded by three uniformed police officers, as detectives, EMS, forensics, and all the other necessary people filed in and out. Detective Kyle Matheson was already at the scene. When Evan arrived, Kyle quickly gave him the bare facts of the murder. David MacMillan, employee of Burns, Myles, and Mori, had stopped by the building after hours with his date, Tanya, to pick up some plane tickets he needed for the next day. Wound up, and in search of a good place to make out, he'd suggested the garden. He had considered it nice and private, but outside. There was a certain edge to "doing it" outside, MacMillan had stated. He and his date had walked out and interrupted... a murder in progress. Three guys in dark robes with hoods, a batch of lit candles, and some poor dude getting stabbed to death. The woman had been borderline hysterical and was currently being attended to by paramedics. The victim was deceased. A single stab wound to the heart had rendered him dead in seconds. Evan flashed his badge at the uniforms and walked into the space. The forensic people were busily taking photos and beginning their jobs. The body of a man was lying on the marble bench near the center of the garden, naked, the handle of a knife still sticking up from the chest. Evan carefully walked closer, taking care to avoid anything that looked like it could be evidence. As he got within about four feet, he was ambushed by a wave of nausea and vertigo. He stumbled. "Hey, Garrett, watch where you're walking!" snapped Matheson as he grabbed Evan by the shoulder and steadied him. "Sorry, just falling over my own feet," Evan muttered, and hastily stepped back several paces. The feeling dropped off dramatically but didn't vanish entirely. He took a deep breath and tried to collect himself. Oh, gods, it was like standing next to an open sewer. Breathe. Ground, he told himself. Grounding was a psychic thing, connecting to the steadying force of life, usually the earth, but people could work, too. Not that there was anybody at the crime scene he would even consider trying such a thing with. Oh, yeah, that would just go over so fabulously with the department. Hey, I'm a psychic, and, well, although I'm not really all that strong at it, the crime scene is giving me the creeps. Uh-huh, and next would come the nice white jacket with the sleeves that tied in the back. He hoped he looked like he was just watching the techs do their jobs, and didn't look like he was totally spaced out, trying not to puke. It took another full minute before he dared even focus his gaze on the body. Okay, let's try for a little logic, he told himself. The knife was still in the victim. Whatever had been going on got interrupted, hence the energy pool around the victim. He couldn't see it, his psi Talent didn't generally give him visuals, but man, could he feel it.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 33

He edged closer. There, he was right at the periphery. Evan stood motionless, fighting against the nausea and spinning sensation. It was a dark energy, vile and destructive, dissipating oh-so-very slowly. Whatever the original intent had been, those responsible had been sloppy. They hadn't even attempted to get rid of the energy they'd liberated. They had cut and run, rather literally in fact from the witness accounts, and the remnant was downright nasty. It lingered like the smell of two-week-old decomp, making his skin crawl with the sensation. Among the people flowing in and out through the gate, Evan saw a familiar figure: Benchley. The man was wearing jeans and gray hooded sweatshirt and was accompanied by another man, a little shorter, also dark-haired and dressed similarly. Benchley flashed his federal ID at one of the uniformed officers, and the officer nodded so Benchley and his colleague could enter. They strolled in the direction of the body, and Evan watched Benchley do just about the exact same thing he had. The man stumbled and nearly fell. The other man grabbed Benchley's arm to steady him, then Benchley staggered back a few yards and stood bent over, one arm hugged around his body, the other braced on his leg. His colleague was close beside him, talking to him. It was interesting, very interesting, in a totally twisted sort of way. Evan glanced at the probably twenty-some people all crisscrossing the crime scene. Only he and Benchley appeared to have noticed the psychic slime residue left behind, along with the body. This went a long way toward explaining why SIS had such a mixed reputation. *** John was still bent over, fighting the urge to vomit. He could feel Rich's hand between his shoulder blades. What the hell had gotten left behind along with the body? "You going to be okay?" asked Rich. John nodded slightly and managed to straighten up. "I take it you noticed something other than just a DB with a knife stuck in him." "Uh-huh," John groaned. "If it's affecting you this badly, maybe we should walk back toward the truck," Rich suggested. "No... Just gimme a couple of minutes." John breathed hard. "There's someone heading toward us," Rich said. "If it's Taylor Vanderbilt come to give me grief, now is a really bad time," John snapped. "It's not. I have no idea who he is, looks like local PD." John drew himself together and turned to face -- Evan Garrett. He let out a long breath of relief. "Agent Benchley. I think I'm completely unsurprised to see you here," said Evan.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 34

John gave him a weak smile. "So does this make body number three or number four? I think this

one hit a snag or got interrupted. It seems... unfinished."

"If we count the one you and I discussed a little, I think that makes it four. And, yeah, according

to the witnesses, it was interrupted right in the middle of the kill-the-victim part."

"Just great. Don't suppose we've got anything to help ID these idiots?"

"Nope, not so far. Robes and hoods," said Garrett.

"Oh, this is Rich Ciavelli. One of my field agents. Rich, Evan Garrett, DCPD." They shook

hands.

"It's going to be a while before the forensic people are done. Why don't we go over toward the

wall and talk?" suggested Evan.

"Okay," John agreed slowly, gazing steadily at Evan for a long moment. Just how much had the

detective seen?

"Being this close to that... is, well ... Giving me the desire to wash out my brain with bleach,"

said Evan. He held the federal agent's gaze, and they both smiled just a little. It was an innocent

enough statement, except it wasn't. Benchley now knew the detective was aware that something

far more vile than blood and body fluids lingered at the scene.

All three of them walked another dozen yards off to the side of the scene and leaned against the

concrete wall that separated the garden from the exterior street.

"Rich, go grab the camera and start taking pictures," said John. Rich nodded and walked off.

"So, you think it's the same people?" asked Evan.

"Yeah, I knew it was too complicated for one person to pull it off, has to be the same bunch."

John looked straight at Evan, considering how much he wanted to tip his hand. "It's a ritual," he

said.

"I got that. And a fucking sloppy one at that!" spat Evan, and immediately looked uncertain at

expressing such an opinion.

John raised an eyebrow just a little at the comment. Detective Garrett most definitely knew more than the average cop. "I need to know what you know," said John.

"Not much. Not much at all. Mostly just speculation," Evan turned and watched the scene for

another minute. A couple of high-powered lights had been set up to assist in the evidence search.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 35

Outside the wall, there was an increase in noise; apparently a news van had pulled up. "Oh, great, just great, now we have deal with the media, too," he muttered. "Time to pull out the stops," John said, digging out his cell phone. He dialed. "Hey, Todd, muster up. I need all hands. South Irvine Street, take a sharp right at the T-junction and follow the freaking circus. We're about to exercise a little federal jurisdiction. Okay, see you shortly." He hung up. "Guess that's my notice to exit in the direction of just us local peons," sighed Evan, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "No, actually, not at all. I need you on this. I need every available person who can even begin to understand just how out of the scope of normal this is. And I know this is a lot to ask, but I need you to run whatever interference you can between SIS and the PD. I'll square it with your captain later. Okay?" Evan gave Benchley a long look, like he was trying to judge just how cooperative he ought to be with a federal agent, then he nodded and walked off toward some of the uniformed officers. *** It took a little under half an hour for the rest of the SIS team to arrive. A powerfully built man with a blond crew cut and a petite, red-haired woman arrived first, and then a black woman with hair in shoulder-length braids followed. Benchley was busy giving orders for the forensic people to clear out and leave all the evidence behind. Moments later, the local PD and EMS were being shooed away as well. This was now a federal investigation. Evan ended up spending most of the next hour listening to gripes from his fellow officers and trying to assure them that SIS did actually know what they were doing. He mentally crossed his fingers on that one, but he did know that the local forensic team was not only oblivious to the energy residue, but would have no clue what do about it even if they knew it was there. *** Todd McAffey walked the outer periphery of the scene, almost surreptitiously sprinkling a fine trail of white powder as he went. At first glance, his heavily muscled body and ramrod straight posture practically screamed military, and it was true, he used to do ordinance and weapons work for the Marine Corps. If anyone asked what the hell he was doing, the standard response was, using a highly experimental compound that had been found to be beneficial in preserving crime scene integrity; in essence, a bullshit answer. He was creating a circle with salt, so that the psychic crap John said was lingering near the body didn't up and create any unforeseen events. They'd had that happen a couple times. Fiona was doing something similar much closer to the body. Cecelia Thomas, the SIS staff doctor, was double-checking all the initial observations made by the man from the coroner's office. The body would be taken back to SIS for autopsy.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 36

John waited until Fiona was done before he ventured back toward the body. He wasn't really in the mood for a repeat of his earlier experience, so his approach was a bit slower this time. When he lowered his psychic shielding partway, he could still feel a lingering film of the miasma that surrounded the whole scene. It reminded him of the smell of something you wanted to scrape off your shoe, mixed with a desire to turn and run. Even mostly gone, it was still foul. "So, anything unusual about the body?" he asked Cecelia. "Not really. Single stab wound directly to the heart would appear to be the cause of death. I'll know more when I do the autopsy." "Okay. I'm going to find out if Rich and Todd are done with the photos. So where the hell is Stuart?" "Gone to pick up his son Rob from William and Mary. He left around seven-ish last night. You even asked him if he was driving alone or taking Vanessa." "Oh, crap. Yeah, I remember. It's been a really long day." John pressed the heel of his hand to his eye socket. The ghostly ice pick of pain was just beginning to stab inside his eye, and he was beginning to notice the halo around objects he looked at. Damn, he didn't need a migraine now. Cecelia stepped in front of him and held out her hand. "Give me the keys to the truck," she said. He knew she was all too familiar with the warning signs he tended to exhibit when he was starting to get a migraine. "It'll be four to six hours before it gets bad," he protested. "Uh-huh. Give me the keys to the Hummer, now. I'm going with the body. Hopefully, everything will be done here in an hour or less if we're lucky. Rich can drive you back to the office. When you get there, take Vicodin and go to bed, John," she ordered. "Yeah, whatever." He growled and slapped his wad of keys into her open hand. He stalked off toward where Todd was collecting candles and bagging them for evidence. "How many are there?" John asked, gesturing at the candle in the bag. "Eight. I'm guessing for cardinal points?" replied Todd. "The news van people are chomping at the bit for a statement. You going to deal with them?" "Jesus, I'd rather not. But I guess I'm going to have to say something." "Let me know when you're done. The sooner we wrap this up, the better." John walked slowly out of the garden area and in the direction of the cluster of people from the local TV station.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 37

A blonde woman thrust a microphone in his face. "Sir, can you tell us why SIS has assumed control of this murder scene? Rumors are hinting at a satanic cult being responsible." John glared at her. "Both witness testimony and certain irregularities in the scene indicate multiple people being responsible. We are exerting federal control in an effort to coordinate plans to bring all responsible parties to justice. End of comment," he said, then turned and ducked back under the tape, heading back in the direction of where the body was being loaded into the ambulance for transport. Evan fell in step beside him. "The PD is not happy about this. They want better reasons than the BS you just spouted off to the media," Evan said. "I know, I know. Tell them... tell them we're almost certain this one is tied to the vacant lot murder, and kind of hint toward serial killers, but only if you can do it without actually saying it. After all, it's sort of the truth. You and I are already contemplating that this is the fourth victim. Considering the crap left at this one, I am almost positive they'll have another try, since this one got interrupted in midstream." "All right. I'll try. Where are your people taking the body?" asked Evan. "Our headquarters. Although considering it's pushing three a.m., I'm pretty sure Cecelia won't do the autopsy 'til noon or so." "Is she... will touching a body that's...?" Evan appeared uncertain how to ask the question. John stopped and stood looking at him for a long moment. "No, touching the body won't bother her. She's brilliant, but... she's pretty close to headblind." There; John'd actually been direct, and Garrett hadn't flinched. He'd merely nodded his head. This man had definite potential with SIS. The pain in his head was gradually increasing, and John rubbed his eyes and made a grimace of pain. "You okay?" asked Evan. "I'll live. I'm getting a migraine." He rolled his head in a vain attempt to release some of the tension in his neck. "We're almost done here. I've got some phone calls to make, one of them to your captain. SIS is going to borrow you for the next day or two." "Does this mean I get the case file for the female who might qualify as victim two?" Evan asked. John grinned a little. This guy was adept at the give and take game. "Yeah, you get to read the file. You still have my business card?" "Yes."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 38

"Come by the office about noon tomorrow. Hopefully, we'll have all gotten some sleep by that point. I want to hear your theories, even if they are just speculation."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 39

Chapter 8

Follow Up

Saturday, November 11, 2006

It was nearly four a.m. by the time Evan pulled into the parking space at the back of his brownstone in DuPont Circle. It was just beginning to rain. He was desperately tired, his eyes burning as he fumbled for the key that unlocked the back gate. The third-floor apartment of the row house was his and overlooked a narrow garden at the back of the house. Raised beds lined the walkways there and a cast iron table and two chairs sat on a brick patio leading up to the back door. The rain was really beginning to pick up as he walked the path. For a moment he started to hurry, then stopped. It didn't seem to matter much that the SIS had had a go at dispelling the filthy energy scum left over by the interrupted ritual. He still felt coated in it. That sort of "oh I just stepped in dog poo" sort of scent. Except it wasn't really a smell, it was more of a feeling. The rain felt blissfully clean in comparison. He sat down on the back step, elbows on his knees and let it soak him to the skin. It was cold. Icy cold, trickling down through his hair and chilling his body. He closed his eyes. If he sat here for a few minutes, the rain might help rinse away the gunk. Evan shivered and opened his eyes, glancing at the sky. It was beginning to lighten a little at the edges. Dawn. How long had he been sitting here? He felt cleaner, but also soaked and half frozen. Some sleep would be a really good plan. Slowly, he got to his feet and unlocked the back door. He trudged up two flights of steps, leaving a trail of rainwater behind him. In his apartment, he stripped and left the soaked clothing in the kitchen sink. He'd trash everything later. In his bedroom, he dug a hand into his top dresser drawer. Buried at the bottom, under the socks, was his pentacle, a protection against the darkness. It was a beautiful piece of jewelry -- sterling silver leaves wrapped around the edges of the outer circle, the bezel was another leaf, and the "star" beneath was constructed of smooth, flat lines. Brigid had given it to him for winter solstice a few years ago. It hung on a black silk cord. He slipped it over his head and crawled into bed. The slight weight of the pentacle against his chest was calming, familiar, and protective. Groping for his clock, he glanced at the time. Five-twenty. Benchley had said noon. He set the alarm for ten-thirty. That should give him enough time to shower and get to the Crystal City area. *** Saturday, November 11, 2006 -- 10:30 a.m. The alarm was an annoying chirp. Evan reached out a hand and smacked it off. Oh, lord, there were days when the erratic hours that went with being a cop truly sucked. He rolled out of bed and stumbled in the direction of the kitchen. He dumped water and grounds in the coffee maker and set it going, in the hopes of it being ready by the time he was done with his shower.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 40

Showered, dressed, quick cup of coffee gulped down, he jammed the previous night's clothes in a bag. They didn't feel as nasty to the touch this morning as they had last night, but still... slacks, shirt, sweater, shoes. Yeah, it was a waste of money, he needed to rethink this. Shoes, trash definitely. The rest? He could wash them and then decide. Dumping the wet stuff back into the sink and leaving the shoes in the bag, he picked up his keys from the counter and went out the door. In the downstairs hallway, lying on a table, a newspaper caught Evan's eye as he headed out the back door toward his car. Halfway down the page, a headline of large type screamed "Ritual Murder By Satanists Draws Feds Into Case." Oh, just great, like they really needed sensationalist half truths to stir up the public and make their jobs all that much harder. *** Saturday, November 11, 2006 -- 11:45 a.m. The SIS building looked absolutely mundane. Evan Garrett pulled into a parking space in the long, narrow lot that bordered the side of the structure. It was a four-story office building, an unimpressive conglomeration of concrete and glass. In an area that possessed several enormous hotels and an unnamed number of massive corporate offices, this one certainly didn't stand out. It was a little odd to see the two huge garage doors on one end of the ground floor, however. That was reminiscent of some of the federal buildings closer to the heart of DC, but then again, SIS was a federal agency. He walked toward the single door at the side of the building. There was a small window with wire mesh embedded into the glass, an intercom system, and a magnetic swipe-card lock. Off to one side, there was a small brass plaque that read "Special Investigative Services." He pressed the button on the intercom. "SIS, may I help you?" said a female voice. "Detective Evan Garrett. I'm here to see Agent Benchley." "Hang on a sec." Evan stood waiting for a good minute before the door made a buzzing noise. He pulled the handle and went in. Inside, he was met by a short woman with bright red hair and the kind of milk-white skin and freckles that often went with a natural redhead. "Hi, I'm Fiona. John said to bring you up to the workroom. He's on the phone." They walked up a flight of steps to the second floor. It was predominantly one huge, open room. One side held a handful of large desks, littered with computers and paperwork and the sort of things that reminded him of the precinct. A full kitchen lined the far wall, fronted by a long counter. The right-hand end of the room showed an open office door and a conglomeration of bookshelves and file cabinets. Evan could see Benchley sitting at his desk. His legs were crossed on the seat in a not-quite lotus posture. He was wearing a pair of wraparound, gargoyles-style

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 41

sunglasses, and his head was bowed forward, forehead braced against his palm. Everything about his body screamed tension. Fiona walked across the room and knocked on the door frame. He looked up and nodded, holding up his hand with all five fingers outstretched. "Guess he'll be done in a few minutes. Want a cup of coffee?" she asked. "Yes, that'd be great. So, how many people actually make up SIS?" asked Evan. "Six." "That's all?" "Yep. The government acknowledges the need for people who do what we do, but still has a hard time choking down the idea that one person isn't enough. And even six have a rough time occasionally. Then there's the whole embarrassment factor if the press ever got wind of what we actually do." "Which is?" "Deal with things that theoretically aren't even supposed to exist," said John from behind him. Evan turned to look at Benchley. The man pulled off his sunglasses slowly. His eyes were completely bloodshot and he squinted a little at Evan, then rubbed a thumb and forefinger against his eyes. "Glad you could make it," he said, and they shook hands. "Please excuse the sunglasses, but migraine leftovers are still hanging on, and they make me really photophobic." He slipped the glasses back on. Fiona handed a cup of coffee to Evan and pointed toward the counter. "Sugar and creamer stuff's over there." "Thanks," said Evan. "Fiona, can you keep an eye out for Liz? She said she's coming by with a batch of tax stuff for me to sign." John crossed his arms and clenched his jaw. "Oh, is she still twisting the knife six months later?" "Unh, yeah," John grunted. "Go do whatever to your coffee and I'll grab the file for the victim we think might be number two." He walked back into his office. Evan glanced at John as he went to put sugar in his coffee. Whoever Liz was, just thinking of her produced waves of anger and exasperation from John that buffeted at the edges of Evan's shielding. John came back out, folder in hand.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 42

"Sit down. Have a read. Take your time. I've got a couple more phone calls to deal with. Then I want to hear your thoughts." He gestured at the pair of sofas and a coffee table that bordered the side of the kitchen area. Evan sat reading for perhaps twenty minutes. Fiona was at her computer, doing something he thought might be a search, and John was back in his office. Evan could hear fragments of murmured conversation about jurisdiction and return of the body. The person named Liz arrived, and Fiona buzzed her in. As the door to the stairwell opened, an absolutely stunning, leggy blonde woman in a long black leather coat and a pair of glossy black fuck-me pumps strode in. She headed straight for John's office. "Saturday afternoon and you're at work. Nothing ever changes. I left you at least three messages yesterday!" she said. "I was kind of busy. We're in the middle of a case. Somebody got murdered," John snapped. "Yeah, yeah, there's always an excuse. Here, sign the tax returns. I'm taking them back to the accountant on Monday. So pony up, I need a check for six hundred and ten dollars to go with it." She rolled her eyes and drummed her fingers on her sleeve. "We're supposed to be splitting this fifty-fifty!" "Read the damn return! That is fifty-fifty!" John flipped through the pages for a moment. "Okay, fine. You'll have to wait a few minutes. My checkbook's upstairs." He strode out of the office and headed for the stairs. While he was gone, Liz wandered back out into the workroom. "So, where's the rest of the crew?" asked Liz. "Taking the day off?" "Not hardly," said Fiona. "Cecelia's downstairs doing an autopsy. Perhaps you'd like to drop in and watch?" "Ew, not in this lifetime. What about Rich and the grunt?" "Rich and Todd went to interview the owner of the building where the murder occurred. Ya know, somebody's dead. And, since it wasn't accidental, we'd kind of like to find out why and who did it. It is our job." "Yeah, whatever. So who's he?" Liz pointed at Evan, who was only pretending to read the report by then. "He's on loan from the DCPD. But then, that's really none of your business." Fiona gave her one of those smiles that never reaches the eyes. The stairwell door opened and John returned. "Here." He thrust the check into her hand. "Now leave. I've got work to do."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 43

Liz made a face and departed. John sank onto the sofa that was perpendicular to the one where Evan sat. He rested his elbows on his knees, pushed the sunglasses on top of his head, and rubbed his hands down over his face. "If I make it to the end of the year without strangling that woman, it will be a small miracle." "Business partner?" asked Evan. "I wish. Ex-wife." "Oh." "So tell me what you think about that case... and the rest of it, too," prompted John. Evan crossed his arms and glanced at the pages spread in the folder. "This woman. Melanie Vicaro. I think has to be vic number two. The tox report says there was scopolamine in her bloodstream. Now, given that she has a rap sheet for possession, presence of drugs in her bloodstream is no great surprise, but all the arrests were for cocaine or heroin. Scopolamine is so totally different. Then there's the wax that your colleague Stuart documented, with the sigil. I can't figure out if the college professor was a test run or a plan." "Let's assume for sake of argument it was a test run. Vic one, professor. Vic two, junkie with a record, vic three, small-time thief, vic four, high-end car salesman. We have ritual magic, really messy destructive stuff, combined with the sigil for a demon, found in three out of the four scenes. I don't get the point. What's the goal?" John sat back and looked at Evan. "I think... no, maybe suspect is a better term, these people are trying to enlist the aid of a demon." Evan watched John's face. Would he laugh? Call him crazy? Apparently neither, since John merely gazed at him with a serious expression. "Okay, that's as good a theory as any, but that brings me back to the why part. My knowledge of demonology, or whatever the hell you want to call it, is skimpy at best. Don't you have a raison d'etre to do something like that? Fiona thinks since this is DC, anything that involves multiple people being responsible has to have some political agenda behind it." "I am listening, you know," called Fiona from her desk. "Good. Feel free to toss your ideas into the ring at any time," said John. Fiona tapped at her keyboard for a moment. "Cecelia's tox screen program just got done. This guy got roofied in addition to the other stuff. Scopolamine, atropine, and oxycodone." "Huh?" John made a face. "Just when we think we're getting a handle on at least the MO."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 44

"Okay, throw one more 'doesn't quite track' piece into the mix. I've read enough profiling information that this makes less and less sense. Although..." Evan hesitated and stared at the coffee table for a long moment. "Come on, keep going with the thought," prompted John.

"People."

"Because profiling really only applies to individuals. And based on the witness accounts, there

are three, not one."

"Yeah. And to be rather Machiavellian about it, the fact that people are dead, I think, is really

only a side issue to what's going on. Almost, well, I kind of hesitate to call it a side effect, 'cause

it's one hell of a side effect, but..."

"They're doing this as a mechanism for whatever the ritual is supposed to be creating,

accomplishing, whatever."

Fiona swiveled around in her chair to face in their direction. "Everything is... sort of progressing.

Start small, work your way up."

"Yeah, I agree," said John. "Have you heard anything from Rich and Todd yet?"

"Got a text from Todd. He says they're cooling their heels waiting on the owner to get home. The

guy is supposed to be flying in from LA."

"Guess that gives him an ironclad alibi." He turned to look at Evan. "As outright revolting as that

walled garden is, want to have another look?"

"I'd love to say I'll take a pass, but it might be useful," replied Evan. The two of them walked

down the stairs to the garage, heading toward one of the Hummers.

"Wouldn't it be easier to take your car? Parking's a real pain out around Adams Morgan," said

Evan.

"I'd rather have gear. And besides, I don't own a car."

"Any particular reason, or are you just being eco-conscious?"

"I used to own a Porsche. Now it belongs to Liz. I guess I'm just too damn busy to shop for a

new one right now," said John. He pushed the button on the wall to open the garage door. *** John and Evan drove back to Burns, Myles, and Mori. They pulled up on the street along the back of the building, near the maintenance door to the garden, and got out. John walked around

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 45

to the back of the vehicle and popped the tailgate. He reached into the H2 and pulled out a twoliter bottle with the label peeled off. It looked like it was filled with water. "Here, bring this," John said, handing Evan the bottle while John grabbed a big, somewhat elderly single lens reflex camera out and loaded it with film. Evan watched him in silence for a long moment, before he realized the bottle in his hand was... causing his fingers to tingle just a little, in the way that he associated with an object used repeatedly in a ritual. "Um, so what is this stuff?" Evan asked. "Holy water." "In a two-liter bottle?" "I... know a really open-minded priest. He's helped me out a couple of times." John grinned at little. Evan looked down at the bottle again. Water, charged with positive energy. He supposed it really didn't make a difference which religion, the end result was basically the same. "Wouldn't it be better to use a digital?" he asked, gesturing at the camera as John shut the tailgate. "Not for this. Sometimes actual film will pick up... well, images that digital won't. And then again, all we might get is just photos." They walked toward the exterior door into the garden. A uniformed cop was on duty, and they showed him their ID's to get in. John began a grid system walk, taking frequent pictures. "Just set the bottle somewhere. Nose around. See if you notice anything we missed last night," Benchley suggested. Evan carefully walked along the walls, setting the bottle on a planter. He had to admit, from a purely logical point of view, a walled garden was not a bad choice for a ritual. He knew a couple of city-dwelling pagan families who did something along that line. Eleanor, his landlady, had obliquely indicated that if he wanted to use the fenced-in back yard of the house for anything formal, it was okay by her. She wasn't really into structure that much, being more of a "kitchen witch" by nature, but appreciated that many fellow pagans felt a certain comfort in the mechanisms of ritual. Even knowing that a couple of the SIS team members had done a cursory clean and contain type act didn't help the fact that the whole area felt vaguely scummed over. Evan closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated on grounding. Then he continued his walk, drifting inward toward the center, ending at the bloodstained stone bench. Fighting the same dizzy, sick feeling from the previous night, but to a lesser degree, he squatted down and studied the ground around the bench. There was an... impression, nothing physical, just a lingering "shadow" of a sort. He stood up and stepped sideways. The one with the knife had been here. He knew it. As he stepped directly into the spot where that one had stood, there was a nasty adrenaline rush not

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 46

unlike the bottom-dropping-out feeling of falling uncontrollably. His hand groped for his pentacle through the fabric of his shirt. He staggered backward, tripping, falling into the grass. "Hey, you okay?" John was bending over him. "Unh, yeah, I guess. Take some pictures along the edge of the bench. But, shit, be careful where you step. He stood there while he stabbed the vic," warned Evan. Benchley offered him a hand up and then let go of Evan's hand somewhat slowly. Evan felt the quick, light brush of the other man's mind across his. There was a flicker of analytical concern... and a hint of curiosity? Evan wondered how much of the delicacy of the touch was innate and how much was training. Interesting. "Just point to where. I'll take a half dozen pics. And no offense, I'd rather not step there myself," John said. Evan gave him a rueful grin and pointed to the spot. "About eighteen inches from the edge of the bench. Just far enough that he probably wasn't mashed up against the shoulder of the victim." Benchley took a number of pictures from several different angles. "Okay, got it. Can you grab the bottle of water now? I'd like to dissipate as much of this as possible without getting too elaborate." "Isn't that... well... kind of destroying evidence?" asked Evan as he retrieved the bottle from the planter. "Yes and no. Think of it this way. If you found a bomb and called the bomb squad, after they examined it thoroughly, would you tell them to just leave it and not bother removing or disarming it?" "Mmm, I see your point, well, more or less, anyway. Although this is not the sort of thing that most people are even going to notice." "True. But you know as well as I do that there is a certain percentage of latent psi in the general population who have it but don't understand it. Wouldn't want some innocent office worker out here on a smoke break running around in panic claiming the garden is haunted, would you?" "Wanna make bets on someone suggesting that regardless?" suggested Evan. "Yeah, yeah, I know. It's likely, but I'll damage control what I can." John twisted the bottle lid open and began to circle the bench, sprinkling out the water as he went. Evan could hear him whispering "Pater noster, qui es in caelis..." It took him several minutes before the bottle was empty. He screwed the lid back on and returned to face Evan. "Latin?" asked Evan. "Yeah, Pater Noster... um... Lord's Prayer in Latin. You Catholic?"

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 47

"Um. No."

"Why do I think that's somehow translates to not even Christian?"

Evan's jaw clenched a little. "No, I'm not. Is that a problem?" He tried to keep his voice even.

"Not at all," Benchley smiled. "I was raised Catholic, but let's say my views have broadened

considerably doing this job. Wiccan?"

"Not that organized. I guess you'd call it eclectic pagan."

"Cool. It makes a certain amount of sense that your tolerance for the out of the ordinary is higher

than most. Come on, let's get out of here," John said. Evan was slightly surprised and subtly relieved by the Federal man's reaction.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 48

Chapter 9

Infliction of Pain

Driving on the Beltway back in the direction of SIS, John found himself squinting even harder, despite the fading light. Pain was stabbing along the inside of one eye socket. He took his hand off the wheel and pressed the heel of it to his eye. Traffic had slowed to stop and go; there was probably a fender bender somewhere ahead. Oh, the joys of the DC Beltway. It was beginning to feel like someone had smacked him in the back of the head with a two by four. This was not a good sign. He'd never really managed to shake the migraine from the night before, only knocking it back to a low enough level that he could more or less function for the day. He had suspected it would return, and now here it was, ramping up again, heading toward incapacitating. He put the turn signal on and took the next exit, pulling into a gas station. He didn't bother to turn off the engine. "You're going to have to drive," he said to Evan. "Uh... Okay, but to ask a stupid question... why?" "The migraine is coming back, and it's heading toward force ten. In about another fifteen to twenty minutes, I'm hardly going to be able to focus my eyes. I don't want to run us into the back of someone and be the cause of yet more traffic problems." They switched places. "You going to be okay?" asked Evan as John grabbed at his seat belt to fasten it with his eyes closed. "If you mean am I going to drop dead? I doubt it. They hurt like hell, but they haven't killed me yet," replied John. Evan pulled out of the gas station. "You take something for them?" "Vicodin or Demerol usually, nothing else seems to touch 'em." John leaned his head against the window. Evan didn't bother getting back on the Beltway. He cut through the city streets. There would be lots of traffic lights, but at least the H2 wouldn’t be at a complete crawl. "What would you have done if you were driving alone?" Evan asked. "Pull off. Call someone from the team. It's happened before." When they finally made it back to the SIS building, John eased out of the seat of the Hummer, one hand tightly gripping the edge of the door. The pain thudded in his eye sockets with sickening force. He headed in the general direction of the elevator, a near-blind shuffle, clinging to the wall. A strong arm wrapped around his waist and pulled his arm over Evan's shoulders. He squinted at Evan, slightly surprised at the gesture. "Tell me where you're trying to go, 'cause you look like you're about to pass out," said Evan.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 49

"T' find Celi. Get her to give me painkillers."

"Okay. Then how 'bout you sit in her lab while I go find her?"

"Yeah, okay..."

Evan guided him to the room off the garage that functioned double duty as a lab, clinic, and ER

in a pinch. John sat on the edge of the hospital bed that was pushed against one wall. "Back in a couple," said Evan, heading for the stairs. *** Evan followed a few paces behind Cecelia as she went into the lab. She promptly pulled a

syringe from a drawer and a vial of something Evan assumed was a narcotic.

"I kind of wondered if you were going to get hit again. They always seem to come in groups,"

Cecelia said, while she loaded the syringe.

"Uh-huh," John mumbled. It looked like he had given up on trying to stay sitting up and was

lying on his back across the bed, arm flung across his face. Evan watched from the doorway as

Cecelia dispassionately unzipped John's pants.

"Roll over, hon," she ordered. John groaned and did so. She tugged the waistband of his jeans

and briefs down a couple of inches and stabbed the needle in the back of his hip. He flinched,

just a little.

"You wanna sleep down here or up in your quarters?" she asked.

"Here's fine," he muttered into the sheets, not moving.

"All right. I'll turn off the light and come check on you in a little while." She hit the light switch,

and Evan followed her out the door.

"Is he gonna be okay?" Evan asked.

"Eventually. Ever since the skull fracture, his migraines tend to come in batches. Sometimes he'll

go weeks without one. Then he'll have them every day or every couple days for a while. And I

know he's been kind of burning the candle at both ends with this case."

"Will anyone mind if I dig through the case I was reading before? I'd like to read your autopsy

report on last night's guy, too, if that's possible," Evan asked.

"No problem. John said he wanted you hip-deep in this case. He thought you had some real

insight. And considering that we've been floundering for days trying to pull things together..."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 50

Evan felt vaguely embarrassed at the implied compliment. He followed her back upstairs and sat on the sofa again. He picked up the folder and started reading. Cecelia drifted by a few minutes later and handed him the autopsy report. "I almost forgot, John took a batch of photos out at Burns, Myles, and Mori this afternoon. I think the camera got left in the truck. Should I fish it out? And if so, what should I do with it? It's film, not digital," added Evan. "Get it from the Hummer and leave it on Rich's desk. He'll develop and print the film." *** Cecelia walked softly into her lab. She didn't turn on the lights. John was still stretched out on the bed, prone, face buried in the crook of his arm. She laid a gentle hand on his back, feeling his even breathing, and then slid a couple fingers around the wrist that lay by his side. His pulse beat steadily. He shifted a bit at her touch. She rubbed her hand gently down his back, trying to settle him. It had the opposite effect. He stretched a little and drew a deep breath. "What time is it?" he asked. "Seven-ish. You've only been out a couple of hours." "Unh, did Todd and Rich ever catch up to Gary Burns?" "Yeah, they did. They're heading back in this direction, but traffic's being a real bitch. And you need to get more than two hours of sleep in a row," Cecelia reprimanded him. He sat up and ran his hands down over his face, still obviously feeling foggy from the meds. "I swear I ought to tie you to a bed and drug you senseless for about twenty-four hours, John! You cannot push yourself this hard without consequences." "Yeah, well, I'm still alive and the body count is increasing!" he snapped. She sighed and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Take some Vicodin later. Otherwise, you're going to be hating life in the morning. If you're planning on being awake, I'm going home." *** John trudged up the stairs toward his office. He saw Evan slouched on the sofa, pages spread out around him. The pain in his head had subsided to the teeth-gritting level. "What're you still doing here?" John asked. Evan glanced at him. "Avoiding the Beltway. After we got back, that traffic jam developed into an eight-car pileup. So, truthfully, I'm screwing around killing time and hoping for a revelation to jump up from these the pages and smack me," Evan admitted.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 51

"If only."

"I noticed you're vertical. Better?"

John grabbed his usual coffee cup off the counter in the kitchen and started to pour himself a

cup. "Yeah, I guess," John said with a sigh.

"What'd Cecelia give you?"

"Demerol. It knocks it back to a tolerable level without putting me out for half a day. Sometimes

it has to be Fentenyl, though. That stuff knocks me out cold for, like, six to eight hours."

"Any coffee left? I could do with a cup before facing traffic."

"Yeah, there's about half a pot."

*** Evan got up and walked into the kitchen, picking up a cup from a rack. Standing a foot away from John, he could still feel the pain and tension literally radiating from the man's body. Demerol, that's a narcotic, he thought for a moment, that's why. Most psi he knew lost most, if not all, of their psychic shielding when dosed with narcotics. Some suffered similar effects with

alcohol, but usually to a lesser degree.

"Ever try anything other than painkillers?" Evan asked.

"About twenty different meds. Nothing else seems to touch them."

"Ever try trigger-point therapy?"

"No, what's that?" John asked.

"It's kind of a cousin of acupressure. No needles."

"What's it do?"

"Sort of obliterates knots where nerves and muscles are connected. My mom used to do it to me

a lot for muscle cramps from riding."

"Riding... as in horses?"

"Yeah, my parents breed horses. So I rode almost before I could walk." Evan poured the coffee.

Maybe this was a bad idea, but standing this close to John... even with his own shielding in place, he could tell the guy was still in definite pain. It seemed almost inhuman not to at least offer something that might help. "I... can hit a couple of the points on you. It might help. Couple of fingers pushing on the muscle where your shoulder and neck meet... It hurts, though."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 52

"As if feeling like someone hit my head with a brick doesn't? Sure, why the hell not?" "You probably ought to put the coffee cup down," said Evan. "Oh." John sat the cup on the counter. "It takes several seconds for it to work." Evan ran a thumb along the back of John's trapezius muscle until he felt the knot, and then Evan pressed. John sucked in a breath between clenched teeth and squirmed, letting out a groan of pain. John gripped the edge of the counter as his knees began to buckle beneath him. Evan let go of John's shoulder, hastily wrapping an arm around John’s torso to keep him from falling. The increased contact was heavy, solid warmth against Evan’s body. Evan picked up flickers of emotion... his touch was comforting... tempting... Evan could tell John wanted to lean into the embrace. Instead, the SIS man straightened up, regaining his balance. Evan let go. John tipped his head back. "I know that hurt like hell, but...?" Evan said. John shrugged his shoulders a little. "Oh... wow. It's not gone, but that definitely racked it down a couple of notches." "Good. Told you it was gonna hurt. Ought to do the other side, too, though." "Oh, that's going to be a thrill. Okay, do it." Evan put his opposite hand on the other side of John's neck and pressed. John let out a faint whimper as he scrunched his face up in pain, trying to hold still. Evan released the pressure "Unh, maybe you should get a job as a physical therapist." John groaned and shrugged his shoulders again as Evan's hand trailed briefly down his arm. "Oh? Why's that?" asked Evan. "I spent four months in physical therapy after the bomb. It helped, a lot, but oh, man, did that woman like to hurt me." "Bomb?" "I used to be DEA. My partner and I were trying to unravel a ring dealing coke. Guess we pissed off the wrong person. One night, we went to meet a contact. Somebody rigged the guy's car to blow. My partner died. I got blown forty feet straight into a brick wall. Fractured my skull, broke eight other bones, spent three weeks in Shock Trauma. Which is where I met Cecelia, who saved my life," explained John. "Wow. That's intense." "Yeah, well, welcome to my life. Beyond a few scars, I do just fine, except for the migraines. They seem to be the part I can't get rid of."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 53

Evan picked up his coffee cup and drank as he watched the man beside him. He was somewhat uncertain what he was picking up from Benchley now, besides a diminished amount of pain. Curiosity? Interest? To call it attraction would definitely be too strong a word. Benchley was undeniably easy on the eye, bordering on drop-dead gorgeous. He wondered what the chances were that this guy was anything other than strictly hetero. "I really ought to head toward home. But, what do you want to do regarding this case? And what did you say to the captain? He gave me a kind of vague answer when I asked him if he wanted me to keep up with the rest of my cases over the next couple days," Evan commented. "My fault. I was kind of in shut-up-and-do-what-I-say mode by the time I talked to him. I think I told him SIS was borrowing you for an unspecified amount of time and not to count on seeing you for the immediate future. That was probably not necessarily the best way to go about it. I'll call him back and play nice." "Thanks. I'd like a job to go back to when this is done," said Evan. He finished his coffee and headed out, with the hopes that the traffic was improving. *** Saturday, November 11, 2006 -- 8:30 p.m. Late in the evening, John got a call from Stuart Eisler. Stuart had returned from southeast Virginia and picking up his son. After deciding a phone conversation was probably not sufficient to bring him up to date, Stuart drove to the SIS office. The two of them sat in the den of John's quarters on the fourth floor. It took a full half an hour to plow through all the details of the latest body. "So, tell me about this DC cop," said Stuart. "He's smart." "So is Stephen Hawking, and I wouldn't want him chasing bad-ass nasties with us," commented Stuart. John laughed. "Okay. More specifically, this is a guy who thinks outside the box. Even in the beginning, he didn't bat an eye when I mentioned what the sigil probably stands for. After our mutual encounter with the icky leftovers from the ritual, I know he's psi. Exactly what Talent, I'm not sure, but it's there. And there's more, too. He's still sort of playing it close to the vest, but I think he knows way more than he's letting on." "And you want to recruit him?"

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 54

"Maybe. Probably. Sometimes we get spread pretty thin. Just following Sean's advice. If he saw a potential candidate, he'd put them on the short list. It's how he got Todd. And, of course, I picked up Cecelia." "And man, that was a gamble, but she has really worked out," said Stuart.

John tapped his temple. "Knew she would."

"You just bet on that 'cause she saved your life."

"How many trauma surgeons do you know who would gamble on the purely experimental idea

of hypothermia for treating a severe head injury four years ago?" John jabbed a finger in Stuart's

direction.

Stuart shrugged. "So, how 'bout we invite him over to watch the game tomorrow? See if he fits

in."

"What will Vanessa think?" asked John, referring to Stuart's wife. "What's one more body when we've already got a houseful?"

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 55

Chapter 10

Socialization

Sunday, November 12, 2006

Stuart and Vanessa Eisler lived in a two-story brick house not too far off the Chain Bridge Road exit. It was located in a moderately middle-class neighborhood just old enough to have large yards, rather than being set on postage stamp sized lots. Once a month, as long as there wasn't a crisis going on, the whole team met at Stuart's house for an afternoon of food, conversation, and general fooling around. A few hours of down time was usually a good way to let their collective subconscious percolate a little, even if there did happen to be an active case. Rob, Stuart's son, a freshman at William & Mary, was home for the weekend. He was a fairly conservative kid with a passion for history. Todd and Rob started throwing the football in the kitchen, which led to orders from Vanessa to "take it outside before you break something." That left the rest of the group still congregated in the room. "Okay, everybody else out, too. I don't need you all underfoot." Vanessa fussed and laughed. They followed Todd and Rob out into the backyard. Rich proposed a game of touch football. Fiona sat on the picnic table watching while the game raged. John, Todd, and Stuart played on one side and Evan, Rich, and Rob on the other. The yard was bordered by a high wooden privacy fence and a number of trees. It was a grassy escape from the traffic of the suburban street out front. The game started out casual and tame, but the testosterone got the better of them. It became aggressive and sloppy, and got even worse once the drizzle began. Sprinting across the slick grass, Evan jumped to catch a pass. Todd lunged with both hands for Evan, but his injured knee buckled and his feet slid out from under him. Todd slammed into Evan full force with his body. The impact drove all the air out of Evan's lungs as he hit the ground, Todd landing on top of him. Todd scrambled to his feet and turned to offer Evan a hand up. There was no movement from Evan. "Hey, you okay?" asked Todd, and he dropped to one knee beside Evan and laid a hand on his chest. Finally, Evan flung an arm over his face and made a wheezing gasp. John and Rich jogged toward them. "Is he hurt?" John asked. "Do I need to go get Cecelia?" "I don't think so. I think I knocked the wind out of him," said Todd. Evan sat up slowly, still gasping. He made a weak wave-off motion with his hand and hugged his arms loosely around his knees, head down. "'M okay," he groaned.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 56

"New rule. Don't kill the newbie," suggested Stuart, grabbing Todd in a headlock and scrubbing

his knuckles across the top of Todd's head. Todd laughed and twisted away. Rich offered Evan a

hand up.

A sharp whistle came from the direction of the house. Vanessa was leaning out the back door.

"Come eat!" she yelled.

The entire group headed inside. They all tromped in, muddy, wet, and grass-stained, making

jokes.

"Does the phrase 'too stupid to come in out of the rain' ring a bell?" said Cecelia, eyeing the

guys. She was sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter, a mug in her hands. "Christ, I swear! You

all are worse than a group of preschoolers! Is he okay?" she groused, jerking a thumb in Evan's

direction.

"Yeah, he's fine, Mom," replied John

"You oughta get him that T-shirt that says, 'Doesn't play well with others!'" Fiona pointed at

Todd. He threw his arms around her and proceeded to tickle her. She squealed and elbowed him

sharply in the ribs.

"Oh! I'm wounded!" Todd wailed in mock drama and made overt "dying" motions.

"Guess you won't be wanting a beer, then?" asked Stuart.

"Wrong!" Todd laughed and stretched around John to snag a bottle off the counter.

As everyone got drinks and proceeded to attack the food on the kitchen counter, Cecelia

eventually made her way toward Evan. He was leaning back against the kitchen counter, beer

bottle in his hand, watching the active, teasing banter among the group.

"Any lasting damage?" she asked.

"No, I'm fine. I've been put down a lot harder by a whole lot of horses." He smiled.

"Just checking," replied Cecelia.

*** After the game, everyone else departed, and John remained behind to talk to Stuart. They sat at the kitchen counter, drinking coffee. John had spent many hours in this room, agonizing over cases with Stuart in the past year. Stuart and Vanessa had more or less absorbed him into their family, as he had no immediate family of his own still living. "So... opinions of Detective Evan Garrett?" asked John.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 57

"I like him. On a purely social level, he fits in with the rest of us fairly well." "Why does that sound like it has a 'but' at the end of it?" "You said his record is impressive. But our lives are pretty damn off the scale strange at times. Do you think he can cope?" asked Stuart. "I'm the one who wondered if Todd could transition from active duty military to us. I was wrong. He's been an absolute asset." "For a guy who's really good at shooting things, he's actually one of the best people watchers I know. Not so good at asking the right questions, but picks up a lot of subtle body language stuff." "Which is why I send Fiona with him most of the time. You know she can't keep an opinion to herself to save her life, but when she comes out with the sarcasm, he's good at tracking the reactions," said John. "Back to the question about Garrett, you think he can cope?" "Yeah, I do," said John. *** Monday, November 13, 2006 -- 3 p.m. Fragmented, that was the best description of Evan's day. The morning had been spent on paperwork back at the precinct. Lunch had been fast food eaten in the car on his way to interview a potential witness to the gang shooting; the witness had been way less than cooperative. Then a phone call from Benchley had sent him driving back in the direction of Georgetown. He met Rich Ciavelli there, and they had gone to talk to the owner of a shop that sold blades that were similar, but not identical, to the one left in the body. Evan glanced at a short dagger lying in a case. The blade was about a hand span long. The guard was a somewhat lacy, silvery curve that would undoubtedly fit the curve of a hand quite nicely. A brass skull adorned the pommel. "You know, seeing this, I think the one in evidence is someone's idea of a cheap knock-off of a BKS," Evan said, squatting down to get a better look at the one in the case. "A what?" asked Rich. "Baltimore Knife and Sword. They make some pretty sweet stuff. A lot of it's reproductionoriented, hang on the wall type stuff, but they do usable ones, too." "And you know this why?" asked Rich.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 58

Evan grinned a little. "From hanging out with some people who do the medieval recreation thing. The blade we have is kind of low quality. The open work is sloppy and so is the skull attached to it. I'd almost be willing to bet they bought it either off the Internet or at some tourist or gift shop." "Okay, then. I can see why John wanted you to meet me here. I can find a place that carries something close, but obviously I have no clue what I'm looking at." "Uh-huh. But if we were trying to trace a gun... I have one. I know how to fire it. I'm even not too awful on the range, but that's where my knowledge ends." "If we were looking for a gun, you'd be with Todd. That's one of his areas of expertise. I'm generally the legwork guy. Anyway, if we're done here, we're supposed to head back to base. You need to follow me, or can you find your way?" "I can find it," Evan assured him *** Monday, November 13, 2006 -- 5 p.m. Todd and Fiona spent the day interviewing a significant portion of the last two dozen potential buyers and clients that Chad Forsythe had listed on his appointment calendar. Driving away from yet another client, Fiona twisted in the front seat of the Hummer and fished her laptop up from the floorboard. "So, if we were to confine ourselves to the two days prior to the murder, we have talked to a bank manager, two government personal assistants, a guy who runs a software company, some poor little rich kid college student, a senator's wife, a guy who heads R and D for a biotech company, and a lawyer. Got any suspects?" quipped Fiona. "Not really. We've still got a few people to check out, though," replied Todd. "What did you think of Ms. Darden?" "The receptionist chick at the dealership?" "Uh-huh," said Fiona. "Cute. And totally wigged out by the fact she knew the deceased." "She said Chad had argued with three separate people the day before his murder. One -- another sales guy by the name of Ray Paisner, two -- the college student, who must have more money than God if he's planning on buying a Lamborghini, and three -- a bank teller, who is supposed to

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 59

have screwed up his deposit. Sounds like a bit of a hothead, but then, car sales guys tend toward the obnoxious and pushy anyway." "That sounds like a prejudiced comment," replied Todd.

"Yeah, whatever. I vote we do the next round of interviews tomorrow starting with the bank

teller and--" Fiona stopped as her cell phone rang. "Mills."

"It's John. Where are you?"

"Just passing the Chain Bridge Road exit."

"Think you'll be likely to make it back by six?"

"Yeah, probably. Why?"

"Rich just left Georgetown with Evan Garrett in tow. I'd like to have everyone in the office by

then if it's possible. We need to put our heads together and see just how many different angles we can get on this. Stuart went to talk to a forensic tech he knows about the original wax sample from victim number two. He should be headed back in this direction by now." "What are we doing for dinner?"

"Guess I'm cooking, since I'm the only one in the building at the moment."

"Okay, see ya in about half an hour, then." She hung up.

*** Monday, November 13, 2006 -- 6:15 p.m. "Know how long this is going to take? 'Cause I'm starving," asked Evan, following Rich up the steps to the main workroom. "Have no fear, if we're all here for a meeting, someone got drafted to cook," replied Rich. "Huh?" "Fire house mentality. We have this rotating chores deal. Everybody gets a turn. If things are slack, you might get stuck with cooking once in a week; if things are manic and you’re the one in the building, you might get it three or four times. Sometimes the hours are really long, and we get going twenty-four-seven. Sean, the guy who used to run the show, said people were getting sick too much from lack of meals and sleep and all the things that keep you in the groove. So we have a full kitchen, which you probably noticed anyway. We also have a bunk room and an

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 60

exercise room, full-duty locker rooms, gun range, armory, conference room, et cetera. Oh, and the boss lives on the top floor." "You're kidding," said Evan. "Nope." They walked out into the main room. The rest of the team was starting to grab food. Two enormous aluminum foil pans of lasagna sat on the counter, along with a vast platter of raw veggies, dip, and a plate of sliced baguettes. "Wow, I'm impressed," commented Evan, picking up a plate. "Don't be too impressed. Costco is the primary sponsor of most of our meals." Fiona laughed. "Hey, I resemble that remark," said John. Everyone ate and there was some general chit-chat about what they'd all been working on for the day. Eventually, John got up and started drawing columns on a huge white board on the wall: four victims, four columns. He turned to face the rest of the team scattered through the room. "Okay, let's start with commonalities. Four murders. Evan, you get to go first, because you were the first one to see a probable connection to the English professor," said John. Evan felt a bit put on the spot. "The scopolamine, the drug found in the system of all the victims. Historically speaking, well, sort of anyway, it's one piece of a three-part cocktail known as flying ointment. Nightshade, henbane, and opium were combined to create a powerful hallucinogenic combo supposedly utilized by 'witches' seeking the power to fly. However, the flight it generates is more along the lines of a really bad LSD trip. Judging from the tox reports, the suspects are using an approximation of this created from modern day drugs, rather than the more traditional herbal versions." Evan stopped and glanced at the rest of the people in the room. There appeared to be no indication that they thought he was crazy. "Cecelia, have any further commentary on the drug connection?" asked John. "Only that Chad Forsythe also had rhohypnol is his blood stream. I don't know if that indicates new additions to the group of people doing this, or a change in means," said the doctor. "Okay, next one. Stuart, how about the wax and the sigils? "There were no sigils found with victim one, but then again, she was hit by a car after being raped. The connection is still kind of iffy. The second crime scene had a sigil in a piece of wax. The third one had sigils painted on his body, and Evan found the piece of paper that seems to have been used for a blueprint. Then we found both candles with the sigil and the symbols on the body of victim four. The tech I hit up for analysis of the first wax sample said it came back as a relatively standard grade, petroleum-based wax, nothing identifiable as out of the ordinary." "Which brings us in the direction of the sigils themselves," prompted John.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 61

"Telaroth," said Fiona. "A reference to a mid-level demonic entity. Supposedly connected with the pursuit of monetary power, but there are also some references to a connection to trade of life for power." "That would make sense, given that it appears that, with the exception of the first woman, all the others were killed during a ritual. Although, except for the wax sample, we know very little about the second victim," commented Evan. "Okay, then to the ritual itself. What's the deal with the knife left in the most recent victim?" asked John. "I found an approximate match, but not exact. Garrett thinks the one we have is a cheap knockoff of a better one. Who did you say makes the nice ones?" said Rich. "Baltimore Knife and Sword. But the one in evidence isn't. I'm betting they got that one off eBay or some really low-rent Goth shop. Although, given the time of year... It just occurred to me, they might have picked it up prior to Halloween at some temporary holiday place," commented Evan. "And there was a knife and gun show at the Capitol Center in September, too," said Todd. "Sounds like tracking the knife's origin is going to be difficult at best and probably closer to impossible," said John. He ran his hands back through his hair, making it stand out in disarray. "Okay, we have weird drugs, demon sigils, and ritual murders as our main threads so far. Todd and Fiona, any joy on the interviews today?" Fiona spun her desk chair around from facing her computer to look at John. "Maybe. Indirectly, though. Marna St. John worked for Holsinger College. And Gary Burns, who is the CEO for Burns, Myles, and Mori, is one the board of trustees for the college. But that doesn't seem to have a connection to either Melanie Vicaro or Harold Zumdal, and the only connection to Forsythe seems to be the location where he was killed. Maybe I'm just grasping at straws," Fiona complained. John scribbled it off to one side of the white board. "Could be a connection, could be nothing. With so many universities in this city, it's really hard to tell if it's random chance." "Hey, Fiona, you forgot the kid who was on Forsythe's list of clients. Doesn't he go to Holsinger College, too?" interjected Todd. "Oh, yeah... I think you're right. Wonder if that would put him at risk from this batch of psychos?" said Fiona. "We interviewed him already. He's a prick. No great loss if they chose him." "Okay, good. It may not pan out, but who knows. So what's the overall deal with the nut-jobs? Fiona said she figured it had to be political," said John. "Illuminati 'r us?"

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 62

"Oh, come on, when I said it had to be political, I just meant because this is DC, after all. You practically can't swing a dead body without hitting a politician around here." Fiona grinned and rolled her eyes. There was a ripple of laughter from the people in the room. "So, is there anything of note we haven't touched on yet?" asked John. There were no comments. "Okay, Todd and Fiona have another round of interviews tomorrow. Cecelia, see what, if anything, you can come up with for sources of the drugs being used. Rich, I need you to develop the pictures I took out in the walled garden at Burns, Myles, and Mori. Evan, check out any place you think these people could possibly have gotten the knife locally. Stuart, can you chat up the forensic people you know and see if there's anything that didn't make it into the reports on the other victims? Oh, and can you run by Expanded Horizons and talk to Kevin? Who knows, he might have some information. Me, I get to argue with the FBI, the local PD, and the state police and explain why we're stonewalling them." Everyone cleaned up and began to head for home. Evan caught up to Stuart as they were walking out to the parking lot. "So, what's Expanded Horizons?" Evan asked. "It's a very miniscule bookstore out toward Wheaton. It carries a heavy selection of occult books. The owner, Kevin Bitternmier, is a little... well, not too tightly wrapped at times. However, we have gotten a few useful books from him, and he can be... informative if the wind is blowing in the right direction and the planets are aligned correctly." Stuart's tone was somewhat sarcastic. "I really don't know why he's sending me. That guy's seldom willing to say six words to me. John, on the other hand..." "Sounds interesting," said Evan.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 63

Chapter 11

Background

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

The media coverage was inflammatory and sensational. References to satanic cults were made, along with everything from scientology to Al Quaida to teenagers playing World of Warcraft. After spending the majority of the day running down near useless information, Stuart was doodling again, sitting at his desk in the SIS office. The image had been stuck in his brain for days, but every time he tried to put pencil to paper, the visual seemed foggy and indistinct. He was trying to force it, and that never worked. Frustrated, he pushed back from the desk and walked out of the workroom, down the stairs, and out the door. It was a blustery day, wind whipping around the buildings in sharp gusts. A piece of trash blew fitfully across the parking lot. Stuart made an impromptu decision to walk in the direction of the underground mall. A latte big enough to drown in, accompanied by biscotti, seemed to be just the ticket to distracting Stuart's conscious mind enough for his subconscious to kick into gear. When he looked down from watching the young man trying to get a date with the barista behind the counter, the small sketch book he had pulled from his pocket displayed a moderately detailed drawing. Wow. All the floating little bits of images seemed to have coalesced into reasonably identifiable parts. It wasn't pretty or pleasant, though. It gave off the impression of a glimpse of hell. Well, crap. Anyway, mission accomplished, he headed back toward the SIS building. *** Stuart dropped a sheet of paper on John's desk. "I don't know what the fuck it is, or what it means, but it's been driving me crazy for a couple of days," he said. John looked up at him, then back down to the sketch. It was somewhat disjointed. A river or stream covered in raging flames. Off to one side was a pile of something; he wasn't entirely sure if it was rocks or coins. A figure stood in the distance, tall and totally disproportionate, arms too long, head too small. "Wow, how very Dante," commented John. "Yeah, yeah, nine rings of hell and all." "Interesting, but I don't know what to make of it." "It's connected... somehow... Maybe it's just metaphoric. I do know that, since the last murder got seriously interrupted, we should be expecting another one here soon." "Think there's any chance we can stop it?" asked John.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 64

"Gut feeling? No. I think we're gonna lose several more people. And that's just logic speaking,

not my spider-sense."

John glanced back down at the eerie sketch. "Rich developed the photos I took. I just started to

look through them. In the mood to help?"

"Sure. Give me half." They spent an hour thumbing through the prints. The majority were just new angles and daylight versions of the shots taken the night of the murder. One particular shot, however, showed an oddly smeared, shadowy image past the edge of the bench used to hold the body. John squinted at it, tried a magnifying glass, and held it up to the light at different angles. At the far end of the bench, there was an indistinct "ghost" image. The grass could still be seen through the darker area of the picture. It had a vaguely human shape. Two arms, two legs, a head, and yet the proportions seemed mismatched. John sighed in frustration. Stuart looked up from his stack. "Find something?" he asked.

"Maybe. It's definitely a little strange," replied John. He handed the photo to Stuart.

The other man stared at it for a long moment. Stuart scooped up his sketch from earlier. In some

ways, the drawing was no better than the hazy picture. But...

"Look at them side by side," said Stuart, laying them flat on the table facing John.

"Mutant ghost gorilla?" suggested John with a smile. The image didn't look human.

"I wish."

"They do look kind of similar. So what's with the teeny head and the massive shoulders?"

"I have no idea. But I think we can safely bet the sketch and photo image are related. Maybe

even the same thing," said Stuart.

"The shade of the guy who died? What's his name... Forsythe?"

"Maybe. But wouldn't he look more like his body does?"

"You are asking the wrong person. Ghosts are one thing I haven't seen, yet," John commented.

Stuart laughed a little.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 65

Chapter 12

Depersonalization

Thursday, November 16, 2006

"I think we should do the next ritual where you did Marna," said Derek. He was slouched on the bed in his room at the fraternity house. Mark sat backwards on a desk chair, a shot glass of tequila in his hand. "Aren't you the least bit freaked by the fact the Feds questioned you?" snapped Mark. "Nope. They have nothing. The one and only reason they even bothered to talk to me was I was listed in Forsythe's date book, along with dozens of other potential clients." "Won't they realize that you were the last person to see him alive? I mean at the bar." "I seriously doubt it. I paid cash. I purposely went some place I've never been before. I'm not a fool! So, since we got interrupted, we need a new sacrifice. I vote for someone disposable like that junkie hooker." "Maybe we should wait a few more days." Mark tossed back the shot in his hand. "Oh, come on. It's gonna take that long to get the shit we had to leave behind together again. Considering how fast we had to bail, I suppose it's a miracle all we lost were candles and the blade. I swear I'm going to buy a gun. Next time we'll just shoot the party crashers," said Derek. *** Tuesday, November 21, 2006 Five days inched by. Evan split his time between trying to keep up with the cases he was assigned by the DCPD and the tasks he was doing for SIS. On the surface, the jobs were not vastly different, mostly made up of paperwork, legwork, and talking to potential witnesses. The SIS team left notations on the white board in the workroom as they scraped minor details together and eliminated other trails. *** Tuesday, November 21, 2006 -- 7 p.m. Trying somewhat vainly to hang onto what little life he had outside of work, Evan invited Renee to dinner. He suggested an Italian place outside of the Pentagon mall. They would have to drive separately, because he needed to run a statement to a witness for a signature on the way.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 66

Dinner was calm and uninterrupted. Evan decided it was a welcome change from the power bars and fast food of the past few days. They discussed the oncoming holidays, in particular, Thanksgiving. Evan knew he had to work that day, but by some weird luck of the draw had "Black Friday" off -- unless SIS ended up needing him, he mentally added. This produced giggles and proclamations of envy from Renee. She had to work on Friday. After dinner, the two of them walked across the parking lot from the restaurant toward their cars. Renee was fiddling with her keys, twirling them around her finger. They slipped off and fell to the pavement. Evan bent over and scooped them up. As he handed them back to her, she was staring at his chest. He glanced down. His pentacle had fallen out of his shirt when he bent over. Oh. This was not really how he wanted to broach the subject of not being Christian. "What the hell is that?" she demanded, pointing an accusatory finger at the pendant. "A pentacle," he said carefully. "I knew you weren't Catholic, but shit! You're a devil worshipper?" She crossed herself. "I am not a devil worshipper. I'm a pagan." "Same fucking thing!" "Not even close." "That's a satanic symbol!" "No, it's a pentacle." "You're splitting hairs." "Renee, being pagan means worshipping a god and a goddess. It's not really off the scale different from praying to the Virgin Mary." "Don't you even suggest such a thing! That's blasphemy!" "It's just different. Nothing evil. Pagans revere life." "Get away from me! Stay away from me. I never want to see you again. Christ! I thought dating a cop was safe! And now I find out you're a Satanist!" She stalked off in the direction of her car, leaving Evan standing still. He gave a moment's thought to chasing after her and attempting an explanation, then decided it would be a wasted effort. Why were people so freaking narrow minded about alternative religions? He swallowed down his anger and watched her slamming her car into reverse and pulling away. Better now than later, he supposed. He liked her, a lot. She was sweet, usually, and fun. But if she wouldn't even hear him out about his religion, much less other non-mainstream

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 67

ideas, then it was probably best to scratch her off as possible long-term girlfriend. Maybe he ought to go back to dating guys. He grimaced. The last guy that Brigid had fixed him up with had had more issues with the fact he was a cop than his religion. *** Evan trudged up the back steps of the row house where he lived. This was definitely not how he had envisioned the evening ending. He walked up the two flights of steps inside and stood with his key out in front of his door. There was a Post-it stuck on the door. If you get in before 10. I could use a hand from someone tall. E. He grinned a little. Eleanor, his landlady, was probably five foot one in her socks. An active seventy-year old who loved to garden, bake, and crochet, she was always involved in something. He glanced at his watch. It was barely past nine. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. He walked back down to the first floor apartment and knocked. It opened a moment later to reveal a petite, gray-haired woman in jeans and a sweatshirt. Eleanor smiled at him. "I hope this wasn't a problem. But last time Craig was here, he put my biggest stockpot on the top shelf of the pantry. And I just can't seem to wrestle it down." "No problem. Planning on cooking something in particular?" He followed her toward the kitchen. He knew Craig was her oldest son, a lawyer who lived in Detroit. The kitchen was hung with dried herbs and the sink was full of vegetables. "Patty's family has the flu. I'm going to take them a nice, big batch of soup. Up there," she pointed to the large pantry cupboard hanging open. Evan had to tip the large pot forward and wiggle it out from under the lip of the door frame to get it down. "Thank you! Thank you!" effused Eleanor. "I could just see me losing my hold on the thing and having it bash me in the head." Evan laughed, "That would definitely be a bad thing." "Can I offer you a cup of tea? Or are you off somewhere?" she asked. "I just got in. A cup of tea would be great," he said. It was probably a saner alternative than the other thought he'd entertained. There was bar a few blocks away, known as The Fireplace. A gay bar. After the fight with Renee, a little harmless flirting with a couple of guys over a beer seemed like a plan. He knew where it was and had thought about going there a couple of times, but DC was not San Diego. If he was seen by someone who knew he was a cop... Maybe extreme discretion was a better choice. Too bad he couldn't find someone who reacted like John Benchley. Oh, don't go there. Bad idea. "Problems with work?"

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 68

His head jerked up as he realized Eleanor was talking to him. "Sort of," he said.

"People problems or case problems?"

"Both."

"Sit." She gestured toward the tall stool pushed up against the counter. He sat, watching her stuff

a handful of herbs into a tea ball while the water heated. The scent of the herbs hanging by the wall and the earthy smell of the vegetables in the sink reminded him of home, his mother's kitchen. It was always full of herbs from the garden. Bridles and random tack pieces usually hung on pegs near the back door, to be returned to the horse barn. A childhood memory of him plus four sisters and his parents gathered at the large table, arguing about chores over dinner, flitted through his head. "I'm sure you can't tell me about the case stuff, but what about the other?" Eleanor prompted. "My girlfriend saw my pentacle tonight. I had forgotten I still had it on. She freaked." Why was he telling her this? Probably because, if it wasn't her, he would be on the phone to Brigid. "Oh," Eleanor sighed. "Been there, done that... People can be so incredibly narrow minded." Evan grinned at her. When he had moved to DC, Brigid had aimed him at the CUUPS group attached to the local Universalist Unitarian church. A sort of hide-in-plain-sight group of pagans. They neither hid nor advertised their existence. Eleanor was one of the grand dames of the local group. Word of mouth had told him that an older woman was looking for a tenant to replace a college student who had just moved out. He and Eleanor had hit it off at first meeting, and he'd moved into the apartment on the top floor of her house. "Yeah, well.... I suppose it's better to know now."

"You'll find someone, dear."

"Uh-huh. Before I hit retirement age?"

"Hey, don't knock retirement age." She grinned at him.

"You're open-minded and available..." he teased her.

She just rolled her eyes and handed him a mug of tea. "And old enough to be your grandma,

boy." He laughed. She pointed to a canister on the counter. "There's cookies in there."

He peeked inside and saw big, fat sugar cookies. He fished out a couple. "Steering away from

my pathetic love life, have you been following the local news?" he asked.

"Politics or crime?"

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 69

"The murder part."

"Yes, unfortunately.... I take it the whole ritual murder thing was the main reason for the incident

tonight?" she asked.

"Yeah, or at least it was the starting point."

"Is that your case?"

"Yes. Well, sort of. I got drafted by the Feds to help out," Evan said.

"Since I know you tend to more or less 'live in the broom closet,' am I allowed to ask what

inspired you to wear the pent'?"

"Forgive my language, but there's some really bad shit going on. The papers are hitting closer to

the truth than they realize. Which is basically bad for everyone concerned. Don't suppose you've

heard any speculation as to a who, what, or why?"

"Seeking disturbances in the force, young one?" she quipped, and he choked on his tea.

"Sorry, I couldn't resist. But, to answer your question, yes and no."

"Go not to the elves for counsel..." Evan intoned.

"Oh, good one. There's been discussion. Since, like your, guess we'll call her ex-girlfriend, way

too many people can't seem to figure out the difference between dark practices and anything not Christian. That puts all of us in a bad light. I did hear a comment from a rather unpoetic acquaintance of mine. He does, however, have an uncanny knack for clairvoyant tidbits." "Oh?" Evan was curious. "To quote him, forgive the language, 'a bunch of dumb young shits that don't really half know what the fuck they're messing with.'" "Mmm, I tend to agree. I can't give you details, but this just absolutely smacks of just enough knowledge to be really dangerous. There are things that imply very specific intent, and then there's other stuff that just defies logic."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 70

Chapter 13

Signature

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

The empty shop that Mark had used two months ago was essentially unchanged, or at least according to what Mark had told him it was. Derek scanned the back room with a flashlight. Even the duct tape fragments were still clinging to the wooden table. Mark was amazed. The cops had never even found where Marna had come from that night before her untimely stumble in front of the car. Maybe Derek had been spot on about reusing the place. Since they intended to leave the next sacrifice there, rather than deal with body disposal, it wouldn't get used a third time. That was a bit of a pity, since there was a certain convenience to the location. Given the sheer amount of debris on the floor, there didn't seem much chance of what they planned to do leaving identifiable remnants. Still, it paid to be thorough and plan. The duct tape came off the table with fair ease. Derek checked the doors, front and back, and eyed the alley behind for ease of getting a car up close to the back entrance. It all looked good. The next stop on his agenda was to get a new knife. A hunting knife would work, but that seemed so absolutely passé. He needed something cooler. He called up a list of shops that supposedly catered to the occult crowd on his iPhone. He'd go look around, see what was available, then maybe go back dressed like a Goth to make a purchase, if he saw something he liked. The phone suggested a shop called Expanded Horizons. *** Wednesday, November 29, 2006 -- 9:30 a.m. Carlos Minden stood at the back door of the video game shop. It was his turn to open up. A chill breeze was blowing down the alley behind the string of storefronts. Further down the alley, another back door banged open in the wind. It caught his attention. He mentally counted doors. One, two, three, four. That space was unoccupied. It used to belong to a paint-it-yourself pottery place that went out of business back during the summer. Was someone preparing to lease it again? Or was it another break-in? There had been a late-night rave a number of weeks ago in the same place. Vast amounts of trash had been left in the alley that night, and several cars in the area had been damaged. His boss, the owner of the game shop, had been nervously relieved that his own shop had not been broken into or vandalized. Curiosity goaded Carlos to walk the hundred feet or so down toward the open door. "Hello?" he called. No answer. He poked his head into the open doorway. Oblique early morning light shone through the doorway. There was a body lying on a table, and a huge pool of blood beneath gave off a slight reflection. Carlos promptly turned and puked against the exterior wall. It took him several minutes to pull his head together enough to realize he needed to call the cops. He yanked his cell phone from his pocket. It had a dead battery. He still needed to open up for work and decided he could use the phone there. ***

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 71

A five-second look around the scene prompted Evan to call Benchley at SIS. Keeping the rest of the DCPD people on hold for the twenty-some minutes it had taken for John and Stuart to get there had been an exercise in fast talking and creativity, according to Evan. The other team members would be along as soon as they could. The interior of the empty shop was harshly and erratically lit. Several fluorescent bulbs in a fixture near the front cast a certain amount of light through the doorway into the back room. In the rear, only a single fluorescent bulb was lighting the room, throwing deep shadows and glares from broken glass on the floor. John walked around the body looking at the damage. It was nearly identical to the other one. Eviscerated. What was the vic's name? Harold something. He dropped to one knee and, in the dim lighting, looked at one of the hands that were bound to the table leg. Was there more than one layer of tape there? He shone his flashlight on the hand and wished Stuart would get back with the floodlight from the Hummer. There seemed to be a hint of something beneath the fingernails. Maybe they'd get lucky and find some DNA that showed up on CODIS. Yeah, right, that would be just too lucky. He stood up and realized the knee of his pants was soaked. "Oh... well, damn it," John muttered. "Problem?" asked Stuart, as he carried a large, portable, high-wattage floodlight into the room. "I just kneeled in something wet. With my luck, it's probably pee from the corpse." "Yuck, that's just gross," commented Stuart. John began to examine the floor around the body, pacing in relatively straight lines outward. Stuart had retrieved a camera and returned to begin photographing evidence as John collected it. He bagged four cigarette butts, a broken bottle, five scraps of paper, what looked like the remnants of a joint, a condom still in the package, two candy bar wrappers, and another broken bottle. It was probably just random trash. The man who had found the body said he thought there had been a rave in the empty shop a few weeks ago. John squatted down to look at a dark smear across the floor. It looked like it might be a shoe print, even if it was badly smudged. He flagged Stuart to take a photo. When he stood up, the world tilted. John stumbled a little and decided he must have stood up too fast, then he resumed his evidence search. After another couple of minutes, he stopped and rubbed his eyes. He couldn't seem to focus his eyes; his vision was blurry. As he dropped his hand, the dizziness seemed to get worse. Low blood sugar? He had actually eaten breakfast of a sort. He felt lightheaded, and it seemed like his pulse was way too noticeable. He stood still, hoping the feeling would fade, but instead it seemed to intensify. He was dimly aware someone was saying his name. ***

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 72

"John? Hey, you okay?" asked Stuart. He saw John was standing immobile, staring. His face was slightly flushed, but his lips were pale. Stuart grabbed his arm. "I think you need to sit down." Stuart guided John out the back door of the shop. Evan was outside in the alley, talking to the owner of the game shop, Subash Patel. It sounded like they were discussing the previous illegal usage of the space. Evan glanced up when he saw them coming of out the door. "Hey, Evan, I need a hand," called Stuart, as John stumbled again. Evan jogged over and immediately pulled John's arm over his shoulders. Together, Stuart and Evan guided John toward the open back of the H2 parked halfway up the alley. They sat him on the tailgate. "What happened? Did you encounter some nasty leftovers like the last scene?" asked Stuart. Evan grabbed a water bottle out of the back and opened it, wrapping John's fingers around it. John drank a little. "No, nothing like that. Nothing specific, anyway. I think because they actually finished what they were doing this time, icky stuff mostly dissipated. God, I'm really dizzy, and I don't know why," John replied. Stuart thought it seemed like John was slurring a little. "Maybe you're coming down with something," he suggested. "You've been burning the candle at both ends." "I don't think so. It just happened over the span of a couple minutes." John pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and drew a shaky breath. *** Evan laid a hand against John's forehead. His skin felt overly warm, given the fact it was less than forty degrees outside. "You seem kind of feverish..." Evan said. The brush of his fingers on John's face reinforced the idea that there was something very wrong. Evan could sense a thread of fear laced through the other man's physical discomfort. The water bottle slipped from John's fingers, and Evan lunged to grab John as he began to topple forward off the tailgate. "Oh, crap! Put him on the ground!" Stuart ordered Evan, and they eased John down to lie flat on the pavement. "Stay with him. I'll go get the paramedics," Stuart called over his shoulder, heading toward the ambulance parked at the far end of the alley. They had come to collect the body. "My vision is all fucked up," mumbled John, throwing an arm over his eyes. "There's too many people." "Say what?" asked Evan. John was moving restlessly, and his breathing was heading toward panting. Evan touched his fingers against John's throat. John’s pulse was pounding hard and fast. He pulled John's arm away from his face.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 73

"Hey, look at me," Evan said. The other man squinted at him. His pupils were huge. "Did you touch anything?" "... No... 'course not," John mumbled, and he lifted his hand, clad in the usual latex gloves. Stuart led two paramedics to where John lay on the pavement. They immediately began examining him. "Is he allergic to anything? Taking any medication?" one the paramedics asked.

"No on both, so far as I know," said Stuart.

"Has he been sick?"

"No. I don't think so."

"Heart problems?" asked the paramedic.

"Not that I know of."

"Get exposed to anything here at the crime scene?"

"I doubt it. He's got gloves on. No, wait, he said he kneeled in something," replied Stuart.

Evan glanced at the wet spot covering most of one knee of John's pants and down the side of his

calf. He touched it with his own gloved hand and sniffed. It smelled faintly of garlic. Dimethyl

sulfoxide had a garlic scent, and his mind leapt on the connection. "Oh, shit! It's that stuff we found on the victims," Evan snapped. He lunged forward and grabbed a pair of trauma shears out of the paramedics' kit and slit John's pants leg up the side, then across the thigh, and tore the fabric loose. "Grab one of the big evidence bags," he said to Stuart, and Stuart thrust one into his hands. "Okay, so what is it?" asked the paramedic, easing an oxygen mask over John's face. The other paramedic was pulling John's arm out of the sleeve of his leather jacket and shoving up the sleeve of his shirt, trying to find a vein. "It's got atropine, scopolamine, and oxycodone in it, most likely," said Evan. The paramedic raised an eyebrow. John was struggling weakly against the paramedic, who was vainly trying to start an IV. "Too many... too many... make them go away..." John mumbled.

"I'm guessing it's some sort of hallucinogen," said the second paramedic, gripping John's arm to

hold it still for his partner.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 74

"Yeah, that's part of it," replied Evan. John's body went still, and the paramedic immediately checked his pulse. Then John's leg began to jerk and his body to tense. "Damn, he's seizing! Get him on his side," ordered the first paramedic. The other one began to tip John on his side, and Evan pulled John’s head and shoulders onto his legs to keep John from smacking his head on the pavement. His entire body jerked in an erratic rhythm, thrashing in Evan's arms. "Give me the diazepam," said one paramedic. His partner yanked a syringe from the kit and loaded it from a vial. He stabbed it into John's thigh. The seizure lasted a full minute before dwindling to minor tremors, then stillness. Stuart and Evan exchanged a terrified glance. The two medics were quickly checking John's vitals. They pulled his jacket the rest of the way off, hooked him up to the EKG, and got the IV going. "Okay, let's get him to the hospital ASAP," snapped one of the paramedics. A stretcher was brought, and John's limp body was carefully lifted onto it. Evan and Stuart trailed behind a few steps as he was taken to the ambulance. "You go with him. I'll bring the truck and call Cecelia," said Stuart. Evan nodded and climbed in the back with John. John was slowly regaining consciousness. He struggled weakly against the straps of the stretcher. Evan grabbed his wrists. There were waves of confusion and fear radiating from John. "Hey, easy! Don't fight the restraints. You'll rip the IV loose," Evan said, trying to calm him. John relaxed somewhat, and his hand clutched Evan's. "They're all talking. There's too many," he mumbled. Evan could sense the chaotic confusion sweeping through his mind. "John, look at me. It's not real. It's the drugs. You're tripping on the stuff they painted on the bodies." John stared up at him rather blankly. "Can't hardly see..." John whispered. "I know. The stuff dilates your pupils so they won't focus. Just try to hang in there. We're heading toward the hospital." John's eyes rolled back and his body began to jerk again as another seizure took hold. Evan and the paramedic held him reasonably still until it passed. His lips had a distinct bluish cast. The paramedic rapidly checked his pulse and other vitals and placed the dislodged oxygen mask back over John's face. To Evan, the ride to the hospital seemed to take an eternity. Evan knelt beside

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 75

John, holding his hand, feeling him drifting in and out of the edge of a consciousness tangled

with fear and disorientation.

At the hospital, John was whisked into the ER. Evan trailed along behind, trying to answer the

questions fired at him by the doctor on duty.

"What did you say he was exposed to?" the doctor asked.

"A mix of atropine, scopolamine, and oxycodone, all dissolved in DMSO so it soaks through the

skin," Evan repeated.

"Crap! What a mix! Who dreamed that up?"

"Some psycho who's been running around murdering people."

"Unh, okay. Give him two milligrams of physostigmine," ordered the doctor. "And how many

seizures has he had?"

"Two," offered one of the paramedics. "He has ten milligrams of diazepam on board."

"All right, have another ten standing by. If his breathing doesn't improve, we might have to

intubate," commented the doctor. To Evan, he said, "Hey, thanks for the heads up. Go with Lynn

and give her some info. What's his name?

"John Benchley."

"Got it. We'll let you know as soon as he's stable."

Evan reluctantly followed the nurse, while the ER team was cutting off John's clothes and

drawing blood.

Evan spent ten minutes giving a nurse what information he knew about John, which in retrospect, he decided was really precious little. Cecelia and Stuart arrived, and Cecelia immediately went off to try and get details on John's status. Evan sat anxiously in the waiting room. "How was he doing when you got here?" asked Stuart.

"Not good. He had another seizure in the ambulance on the way. I guess the biggest problem is

we have no idea exactly how much of that stuff is in his bloodstream. Um, what did you do with

the piece I cut from his pants?"

"It's still in the truck. It's not like we've had any time to confirm your guess," said Stuart.

"No, no, I didn't expect you to. Not right now, anyway. I just figured we needed to keep track of

it. Oh, God, what about the crime scene? I am just being a space cadet. I should know better."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 76

"Taken care of. That's why I sent you with him. I waited until the rest of the team got there to take over. Fiona, Rich, and Todd are handling it." "Why do I have the feeling that this isn't the first time SIS has had really weird, life-threatening shit happen at a crime scene?" asked Evan. Stuart smiled, a little ruefully. "'Cause it isn't. I can't give you details, but let's just say high risk doesn't even begin to describe this job. Some days, I think I'd be safer base diving off the Washington Monument." Cecelia reappeared in a few minutes. Evan was watching Stuart wear a hole in the waiting room floor. "How is he?" asked Stuart. "Fair. It would have been a lot worse if Evan hadn't realized what the stuff was. They've got him heavily sedated to try to compensate for the hallucinogenic effects. They gave him both physostigmine and narcan to try to counteract the atropine and the narcotic. Diazepam for the seizures. They're going to be taking him to ICU. It's a waiting game at this point. Treat the symptoms and wait for his body to process out the toxins. It's probably going to be at least twelve hours before he's completely stable." "But he will be okay?" Stuart prompted. "Probably... I intend to camp out in ICU for a while and keep an eye on him once they get him transferred." Stuart heaved a heavy sigh. "Okay. I'll head back out to the scene and see how close the rest of the gang is to finishing. You know you're going to get a fresh body to autopsy out of this." "Yeah, yeah, I know. But the living outvote the dead. How 'bout this? If he seems okay in a few hours, I'll catch the Metro back over and get going on the autopsy," suggested Cecelia. "I know I'm just a temp," said Evan. "But if you want someone to stay with him, I'm the one who can most easily be spared from the processing of the scene and the things that come after. I realize that if he starts babbling about demons and ritual magic and dead bodies, somebody needs to be around that knows he's not still tripping on the bad drugs." Stuart gazed at him levelly and said, "He has a point, Cecelia." She scrunched her face up as if she was thinking hard. "Okay, but I'm not leaving 'til I'm sure he's out of the woods. That could be an hour or two," she said. "Fair enough. I'd better scram back out to the scene. Call me if he gets worse," said Stuart and left.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 77

"This is one of those days when I wish we had at least double the number of people that we do," sighed Cecelia. "Come on, I'm going to go make myself annoying and find out if they're moving him to ICU yet. You can stand behind me and try to look intimidating." In ICU, John lay hooked to wires and tubes, an oxygen mask over his face. His skin was still somewhat flushed, as if he had run a sprint. Evan watched as Cecelia glanced at his chart, the settings of the IV pump, and half a dozen other things. He could tell a soft worry pervaded her thoughts. Her hands moved gently over John's body. She examined his hands. The knuckles of one had been scraped and bloodied by the pavement during his first seizure. John moved restlessly beneath the sheets. She brushed her fingers through his hair, like a mother with a sick child. "Is he... stable?" asked Evan. "He's as good as he's likely to get for a few more hours. We haven't gotten through the first half life yet. Why don't you go grab some food? I'll stay with him. When you get back, I'll bail off to see about the autopsy." "Okay, I'll be back shortly," said Evan. *** Evan sat on a stool at John's bedside as Cecelia prepared to leave. She'd walked out to the nurse's station. He looked down at the man before him and wondered just how close to dying John had come. He barely knew the man, but it was obvious John had placed an immediate and vast amount of trust in him. To draw a DCPD detective so far into what had rapidly become a federal case almost boggled Evan's mind. But then, absolutely nothing about the past few weeks had been normal or average. Evan thought about his own reactions. He'd long ago learned to listen to what his empathic Talent told him. Okay, it wasn't infallible, but it wasn't often wrong. At the moment, it was gnawing at him to touch John. All the drugs in John's system, both the unintended and the counteragents, had to be wreaking havoc with his psi. Evan took John's hand. John’s skin felt abnormally warm. Evan dropped his shielding and carefully extended his empathic sense against John's mind. Adults with training seldom left themselves unshielded even when asleep; Evan should have felt some resistance from John. There was none. Instead, there was a restless, incoherent sort of anxiety, reminiscent of a deeply suppressed nightmare. Flickers of fear and physical discomfort drifted through John's unconscious mind. Evan supposed it was a symptom of the atropine and all. Hopefully, everything would return to normal as the drugs wore off. ***

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 78

Cecelia watched from the nurse's station. Evan was holding John's hand. He wasn't talking to him, and she thought that was odd. Most people tended to babble mundane trivia to seriously ill patients, even unconscious ones, in the hope that it was soothing or reassuring. She liked Evan. Stuart had intimated that John was scoping him out as a possible addition to the team. Up to this point, she had seen a shrewd, analytical intelligence and an uncanny knowledge of arcane trivia, combined with a willingness to make leaps of logic -- or maybe that was illogic in this business. He obviously had a compassionate side, too, and openly showed concern for his colleague. Considering the extreme stress of their jobs, a willingness to support others during a crisis was an absolute must. She was slowly beginning to agree that Evan Garrett might be a very welcome addition. *** Processing the remainder of the shop that used to be the pottery store took several more hours. More than once, Stuart was tempted to call Evan back to run interference with the local police. Another ambulance had to be summoned to transport the body, and only when everything was as done as they were likely to get it in one pass did the rest of the SIS team go by the hospital to check on John's status. Benchley was still in ICU, but slowly improving as his body gradually metabolized and excreted the noxious drug combination. Stuart noticed that Evan had lingered at the hospital far into the evening, until the nurses indicated that John was stable enough that he was out of significant danger. *** Thursday, November 30, 2006 John had been moved out of ICU into a standard room in the morning. He was still feeling somewhat foggy from the heavy sedation, and was only barely paying attention to the TV playing softly in the background as Cecelia came into the room. He looked toward her, squinting a little. "I'm surprised to see you awake," she said. "Somebody apparently decided I needed a change of scenery followed by bloodletting," he groaned, and gestured to the gauze on the inside of one elbow. "How do you feel?" she asked, sitting on the edge of his bed. "Like shit. I feel like I went ten rounds with Godzilla." "Considering you had two pretty violent seizures, I'm not surprised." "Huh?"

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 79

"The scopolamine-based cocktail you got exposed to, among other things, caused you to have two seizures before they got you to the hospital. Do you remember any of it?" "No... not really. I remember talking to Stuart about... um... a floodlight. And sitting on the tailgate of the Hummer... people screaming at me, and the light being way, way too bright. And just... vague images that make no sense." John rubbed his hands down over his face. "I suspect all the screaming and bright lights were part of the hallucinations." "Great. Am I going to get flashbacks?" "I doubt it." "I hope you're right. So, someone needs to bring me up to speed on the latest victim. And how soon can I get out of here?" he asked. Cecelia gave him a dubious look. "Maybe this evening. It hasn't been twenty-four hours yet. I don't want you suffering a crash and burn because you got discharged too soon," she said. He was tempted to stick out his tongue at her, but she'd probably just laugh. "Can you at least figure out what the hell happened to my BlackBerry? And maybe bring me some clothes?" "I think Evan has your BlackBerry, and I'll swing by the office and get you some clothes." "Why does Evan have my BlackBerry?" "He was here last night, keeping an eye on you while the rest of us were scrambling. I think one of the nurses gave it to him, along with your keys and wallet and stuff. We needed someone in the loop around, in case you started spouting off case information." "Oh... Good idea..." He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts; he felt utterly exhausted. Cecelia laid a hand on his arm, and he flinched slightly at the touch. "Enough talking. Get some sleep. I'll be back in a few hours," she said, and departed. John closed his eyes and relaxed against the pillow. He could still feel the lingering effects of all the drugs totally wrecking his psychic shielding. Every touch from a nurse varied between "sandpaper inside his head" up to physically painful. Cecelia's hand on his arm had fallen at the lower end of the spectrum. She was a familiar presence. Last night... in between fits of chaotic hallucinatory images, there had sometimes been stillness. It hadn't been simply the absence of unknown people being too close. Had it been someone? He wasn't sure. Cecelia had implied that Evan had been with him. Did she mean just briefly or for most of the night? He trusted Evan. His instincts told him that the detective was a good bet. He knew Evan was psi. Had it been him? If so... maybe there were deeper reasons why he felt drawn to the other

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 80

man. It had been a long time since he'd had a male lover. Just how bad of an idea was that? Getting involved with a cop tied into their active case? It could make for some messy complications. John let out a long breath. He was desperately tired, and every muscle in his body ached. He drifted into an uneasy sleep. *** Thursday, November 30, 2006 -- 2 p.m. Cecelia had spent most of the night finishing the autopsy of the latest victim before her trip to the hospital that morning to check on John. Dead-tired and intent on sleep, she sent Stuart back to the hospital later with clothes and John's PDA. As Stuart walked into John's hospital room, he found his colleague arguing with a nurse. "I think I am capable of taking a leak by myself!" John growled. "Mr. Benchley. It is hospital policy that any patient released from ICU in the past twenty-four hours be assisted to the bathroom. We don't want you to fall. You were supposed to notify one of the nurses." John was sitting on the edge of the bed in his hospital gown, looking profoundly annoyed. The nurse was standing in front of him with her arms crossed, looking equally put out. John saw Stuart standing in the doorway. "Stuart! Please tell me you've come to spring me," he begged. "Well, I don't know about that," Stuart replied slowly. The nurse gave John a thoroughly exasperated look and stalked out of the room. Stuart watched her go as he handed John the BlackBerry. John thumbed it on. "Thirty-seven emails. Christ, I cannot afford to be in here. The city is going to hell in a hand basket, and we need to do something." His expression was grim. "Having you at death's door is not going to help," replied Stuart. "I'm fine. Kind of sore, but just fine. Did you bring me clothes?" He gestured at the gym bag slung over Stuart's shoulder. "Yeah, I did. But per the nurse's comment... yesterday morning you were in ICU. After having two massive seizures from that insane drug cocktail this batch of maniacs seems to be so fond of, I think you need to stay put, at least until Cecelia or someone gives you a green light to leave. And you're not listening to a word I'm saying, are you?" snapped Stuart. John appeared to be wading his way through emails. "I am. Really. I just need to get out of here."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 81

"John... I'm worried about you. You are not indestructible. What happens if I take you with me and you suddenly collapse? Or have another seizure!?" John gazed at Stuart. Even though he looked somewhat contrite, Stuart knew better. "I'll be fine. Take me back to SIS. Right at the moment, most of the stuff I need to do involves email and phone calls. I'll even let Cecelia check me out if that'll make you happy. People are dying, and we have to stop it," said John. Stuart glared at him but gave in and handed him the gym bag. *** In Stuart's car, on the way back to SIS, John slouched against the window, eyes closed, while Stuart briefed him on the latest case details. John asked a steady stream of questions. According to Stuart, Todd and Rich were out canvassing the area around the empty shop where the latest body had been found. Evan was in court testifying for one of the DCPD cases. Cecelia was still sleeping. When the two men arrived at SIS, Fiona was ensconced in front of her computer. "I need to go talk to the family of the deceased, William Quintero," said Stuart. "Will you be okay here?" "Fiona's here to babysit me. I'll be fine," John reiterated. Right at the moment, having no one around would have been easier. His teeth were gritted against background buzz of both Stuart's and Fiona's presences. "Don't be an ass. If you start feeling sick again or have any problems, tell her. I'll see you in a couple hours," said Stuart, and he walked toward the stairs. John was absently trying to listen to his voice mail while leaning against the kitchen counter in the workroom, and he was waiting for the coffee pot to finish brewing. He didn't notice that Fiona had walked up behind him until she laid a hand on his shoulder. Startled, he jerked hard, and the cell phone flew out of his hand and skidded across the counter. "Oh, Jesus! Sorry," Fiona apologized. "I'm glad to see you up and around after the whole hospital thing." He nodded, still feeling sort of jittery. "Let me know if there's anything I can do for you, beyond the case stuff," she continued. "Th-thanks... it's been... p-pretty weird," he stuttered. She smiled sympathetically. It was all he could manage not to literally run out of the room. He forced himself to pick up the phone and walk more or less calmly back into his office. Once there, he shut the door and sat down at his desk. No longer able to hold on to control, he sat shaking for several minutes. There was a knock at his door. "Yeah, it's open," he said dejectedly, not really wanting to face anyone. Evan opened the door. "Gotta few minutes?"

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 82

John nodded. Evan came in and shut the door behind him. "I know it's not really any of my business, but are you okay? I was coming in the door when I saw Fiona touch you. Thought you were about to jump out the nearest window." John studied him in silence for a moment. He'd made the blind assumption that Evan might have some understanding, being psi himself. "This stuff... the atropine and the narcotics and all... has really fucked me up," "How? The oxycodone? I know it messes with a lot of people's control..." "It... I... My shielding is well and truly hosed. I haven't had this much trouble with people touching me since high school. It's like it's short-circuited me or something. When I take the narcotic stuff for the migraines, it turns my shielding to mush, but only for a couple hours, then it's pretty much back to normal. This... I can't seem to get it... right again..." "You know you don't have to be down here trying to work. You could hide out up in your quarters for the rest of the evening. And yeah, Cecelia would probably take it upon herself to come check on you, but everyone would understand," said Evan. John bent his head and rested his forehead on the heels of his hands. "Yeah, maybe. But I'm not really sure if that's going to help." "Do you think it will sort itself out, given a little time?" Evan leaned against the file cabinet, hands shoved in his pockets. John lifted his head and gazed at Evan. He thought for a moment about the sensation of stillness he had fleetingly felt the night before. "I hope. I... think I'll try to tough it out. It'll probably be better tomorrow." Evan shrugged and nodded. As he started out the door, John called after him, "Can I ask you something?" "Sure." "Did you... were you in ICU with me last night?" "Yes. Why?" "I... knew someone was there. I just wasn't sure who. My memory is pretty messed up for most of yesterday. Thank you," John said. Evan smiled a little and walked out the door.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 83

Chapter 14

Decision Process

Friday, December 1, 2006

The day was one long, nonstop set of nerve-wracking irritations for John. It seemed all he could do to keep track of a train of thought while others were near him. He escaped to the conference room, staring out the window while he talked to one of the FBI people on the phone. When someone tapped him on the shoulder, he let out a yelp, whirling to see who it was. Cecelia gave him an extremely dubious look. Trying to catch his breath, he lifted the phone again. "Sorry, someone surprised me. Listen, can I get back to you later? Okay, bye," he rattled off. "John, level with me. Are you getting some sort of flashbacks from the drug overdose? Every time someone touches you, or gets within three feet, you just about freak," said Cecelia. "It's... complicated," he said. It wasn't getting any better. Every touch was overwhelming. Being in the same room with others too long bordered on painful. He had gotten used to his ability to screen it all out, raise his shields, and keep them in place, protection against extraneous thoughts, mental static. "The drugs... have screwed up my telepathic senses." She studied him, then said. "Can you fix it? Will it get better?" "I don't know... It has to. I can't function like this," he replied. "Would it help to contact Division P?" He was mildly surprised that she remembered the details of the psychic training he'd been through. Even though SIS made frequent use of both John's and Stuart's psychic Talents, there was seldom much personal discussion about them. They were mostly just accepted as one more way to acquire knowledge. If only it was that simple. "I'd rather not," he said. She simply nodded and turned to go. "If you think of something I can do to help, tell me." "Okay, I guess." As he watched her go, he was completely aware that she only intended to give him a certain amount of leeway before she pressed the issue. After fretting for an hour in his office, John hunted down Evan. He found the detective at the firing range. He waved a hand, and Evan laid down his gun and pulled off his headphones. "Just trying out some weird ammo Todd's messing with. Hollow points loaded with holy water." "Might come in handy. I... need help." John crossed his arms and blew out a breath. It was hard to ask for something so personal. Evan took off his safety glasses and tossed them on the bench. "Not getting any better?"

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 84

"No."

"What makes you think I can help?" Evan asked.

"I... When you were in ICU with me, I felt calm... You touched me, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Cards on the table. I'm a telepath. Not a great one, but not a latent either. I fall somewhere in the

middle. I've had some training. From a government group called Division P. I passed through a few levels, but, well, it didn't exactly work out. I can't function like this. I need your help." John drew a deep shaky breath; being that open with his secrets was not easy. "Back to why me? What about Stuart? You know him a whole lot better than me," said Evan. "He's clairvoyant. He's not bad with objects. And he has a thing for images. Not really precog

stuff, more like a cross between remote viewing and scrying. He can't help. Not this."

"I'm not much of a telepath," said Evan slowly. "I mostly sense emotions. There's sometimes

little snippets of surface thoughts, but mostly just empathic stuff. Sometime I get impressions

from things, but again, it's usually tied back into emotion stuff."

"At this point." John was still hesitant. "I'm desperate. If it doesn't help, I'm not out much, except

maybe some embarrassment."

"Okay. What exactly do you want me to do?"

"I'm not sure... I guess, try to help me ground enough to rebuild my shielding."

"All right. It's not exactly something we can do in thirty seconds standing down here in the

range," said Evan.

"Let's go up to the workroom. I think everyone else has left for the day."

Back in the workroom, John sat on the sofa, arms hugged around his knees. Evan sat beside him.

"If this is going to weird out you too bad, then I'm not sure there's anything I can do for you,"

Evan said.

John let go of his legs and tried to relax back on the sofa. "Sorry, it's been a really rough couple of days." "You're going to have to try to relax. I know this is a weird suggestion, but why don't you lay your head on my legs?"

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 85

John slowly stretched out on the sofa, head and shoulders across Evan's lap. It was a strangely comfortable position, especially after the nearly painful problems of the past couple days. Normally, touching his awareness against another's took a conscious act of lowering his defenses, but he had virtually none at the moment. He could acutely feel Evan's concern, but there was also an inherent stillness in him. "Come on, close your eyes. It'll help," suggested Evan. He did so, and felt Evan brush his fingers along the side of John’s face. His body jerked, an uncontrolled response to the deliberate touch. "Take a deep breath and let it out slowly." He felt a mental nudge, guiding him toward calm. Fingertips rubbed his temples. Again, he flinched hard at the contact. "You aren't making this easy." Evan drew a breath, and John felt him visualize a circle of protection and fling his own shielding wide open. The image of roots and soil and a man made of leaves and bark filled John's mind. Roots were seeking down through the dirt, gripping the earth. There was a solid texture, grounding, deep and firm. It was stillness like a forest at dawn, an internal hush. John knew his body was still tense against Evan's legs, John’s muscles unwilling to fully relax. John felt Evan give up on letting him lie in Evan's lap and gather John's body up in his arms, hugging John against his chest. Sounds of breathing and a steady heartbeat filled John's senses. Body warmth, arms around him: it was peace, and he was immersed in it. He had absolutely no idea how long he lay cradled against Evan's body. Eventually, the image faded. Slowly damped into the background, then gone, just the stillness remained, broken gradually by the rhythm of Evan's pulse. John opened his eyes as Evan eased him back down to lie across his legs. Evan gazed down at him. "Better?" Evan asked. "I think... Who's the leaf guy?'' "The Green Man, a mythic symbol of the god. Male counterpart to the goddess, or Earth Mother," said Evan. "I thought the god was... well, had horns, like Pan." "That's one aspect. Just not one I use much." "Pagan thing." "Yeah. You suck at grounding." "You sound like my teacher at Division P. He always thought so, too." John grinned a little. "Raise your shields. So we can tell if we got this problem fixed or not," suggested Evan.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 86

John inhaled and brought them up. They were a bit shaky, but very definitely there. After more than two days of nearly nonstop "noise" in his head, it was an eerie and terrifying silence, somewhat akin to suddenly going deaf and blind in the same instant. To go from the warm, reassuring presence of Evan's mind against his to absolutely nothing... Right at that moment, it was too much. He panicked, heart rate skyrocketing, gasping for breath. Evan pulled him in tight, rocking him slightly. "Relax, you put them up, you can take them down," Evan murmured. John's breath was very nearly a sob. Evan stroked a hand down John's back, a gesture of simple physical comfort. And the shielding released. John clung to him, still breathing hard. "Shh... It's okay. You're safe." Soft words of reassurance came from Evan. "I... I am so messed up..." John whispered. "I think half your problem is, you should have spent the first forty-eight hours after getting home from the hospital in bed, getting pampered by Cecelia. And you know she would've." This elicited a partial smile from John as he eased his tight grip on Evan, relaxing back to lie across Evan’s legs. Looking up at Evan, he felt a wave of warm desire wash through him. Someone this understanding, who made him feel this safe, psi, and deliciously cute, too. It had been years since he had had a male lover. John’s breath hitched and he hastily tried to bury the thought. Evan's thumb brushed across his lips. "Don't worry. I'm not offended. But just to warn you, I go both ways," said Evan. John gave a snort of laughter. "And here I figured I was the only bi in DC." He struggled to sit up, sore muscles still protesting. He ran his hands through his hair, making it stand out in all directions. He was so unbearably tired. "I ought to head on home. And you look like you could use about twelve straight hours of sleep," said Evan. "Mmm, like that's likely to happen," John replied. His hand closed gently around Evan's wrist as the other man stood up. "It worked... I owe you." "Maybe I'll take it out in trade," Evan grinned. He pressed John back against the sofa cushions with one hand and braced one knee between John's legs and kissed him. It was a gentle, warm kiss. When he lifted his face away, John stared at Evan in surprise. "Get some sleep," Evan whispered, and left. It was too much trouble to walk up the stairs. John stretched out on the sofa again. A piece of his mind missed the feeling of Evan's against his own, and the warm strength of Evan's arms. Technically, the man didn't actually work for him, but somewhere he was sure there was some

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 87

governmental regulation forbidding "fraternization." He was so unbearably tired, he fell asleep on the sofa. *** Saturday, December 2, 2006 "What good is living in the same building you work in, if you fall asleep on the sofa outside your office?" Fiona snarked.

John opened his eyes. Fiona was sitting on the floor beside the sofa, glaring at him. It was

daylight. Shit, he hadn't meant to sleep on the sofa all night.

"Um... sorry?" he mumbled.

"Don't apologize to me. Go take a shower. If Cecelia finds out, she is so gonna kick your butt."

He hauled himself up off the sofa and wandered toward the stairs.

*** Saturday, December 2, 2006 -- 3 p.m. Transcripts from another couple dozen interviews of staff from stores in the vicinity of the old pottery shop, plus a rather long list of pharmacies in the DC area that had filled prescriptions for scopolamine in the past three months and an interview of Quintero's sister lay spread all over the huge table in the SIS conference room. John Benchley stood beside the table trying to sort the information into some sort of logical piles. "That looks like a disaster in the making," said a voice from the doorway. John glanced over his shoulder to see Evan. "I'm trying to sort this stuff in some way that maybe we'll see some connection we missed." John straightened up from where he stood hunched over the edge of the table, and rolled his head with a grimace. Pain was ghosting along the side of his head. "Fighting another migraine?" Evan asked. "It's thinking about it." He sighed. Evan rested his hands lightly on John's shoulders, massaging very gently. It was a somewhat tentative touch. "That's not gonna help..." said John. Evan's fingers tightened and dug into the knotted muscles at the back of his neck. John squirmed beneath the pressure, letting out a groan. "Now, that might." Evan chuckled a little. Evan wrapped an arm around the front of John's shoulders and tipped him forward just a little, knuckles grinding into the base of his skull. John let out another groan.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 88

"You want me to do the trigger point thing?" Evan asked.

"Yeah, it might help postpone it for a while."

Evan changed his grip and skimmed his fingers down the side of John's neck toward John’s

shoulder. John felt him find the first knot and press his thumb into it. John couldn't help sucking

in a tight breath and letting out a whimper of pain, as he sagged against Evan's supporting arm. Cecelia sailed into the room. "I was looking at some..." she began, and abruptly stopped. She turned on her heel and went straight back out the door. Evan and John exchanged an uncomfortable glance. "Okay, that wasn't embarrassing at all," muttered John sarcastically.

Evan's lips pressed together as he obviously struggled not to burst out laughing.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 89

Chapter 15

Opportunity

Saturday December 2, 2006 -- 6 p.m.

Expanded Horizons was an interesting bookstore run by a totally batty old geezer, or at least that was Stuart Eisler's opinion. John always seemed to get on better with the nutcase than anyone else on the team. "Hello, Kevin," said Stuart. The gray-haired man looked over the tops of his reading glasses at Stuart. "Why aren't you dead

yet?"

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, sorry, I must have the dates wrong."

"Uh-huh. Listen, I'm looking for a copy of The Goetia -- The Lesser Key of Solomon the King.

Any chance you have one?" asked Stuart.

The bookstore owner consulted the computer sitting on the far end of the counter. "Nope. Might

be able to get you one, if you give me a couple of weeks."

"Yeah, do it. John wants to add a copy to our library. While I'm on the topic of demonology,

have you heard anything about the crap going down around the city?"

"Lots," said Bitternmeir.

Oh joy, the guy was going to be cagey and difficult, thought Stuart. "Anything specific or maybe

helpful?"

"The voices say that the stars are correct on Thursday morning after four a.m."

"Correct for what?"

"Usage of the knife the pretender bought."

"And who exactly is the pretender?" Geez, getting responses out this guy was like pulling teeth.

"He wanted me to think he runs with the Goth crowd. He doesn't. A real Goth wouldn't be likely

to wear a Rolex." This comment definitely caught Stuart's attention. There had been some

speculation that the people doing this had access to ample amounts of money.

"What did this guy look like?"

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 90

"White, young, black T-shirt, black fingernails, way too much mascara."

"Height?" asked Stuart

"Taller than me."

"Skinny? Heavy?"

"Average."

"Hair?"

"Green," said Kevin. Oh, that was going to be helpful, thought Stuart. "He likes curry. He

smelled of it."

"Um, okay."

"On Wednesday, the Indian place off Tazewell has a two for one special. It might be a good time

look for him," suggested the store owner. *** Wednesday, December 6, 2006 Same shit, different day. John walked out of his office slowly. He wanted sleep, and that was not going to happen any time soon. He was too wound up, agonizing over the case. He headed for the coffee pot as the next best option. Evan was standing in front of Rich's desk, looking at the contents of a file folder in one hand, mouse loosely clutched in the other. "Helps if you actually lay the mouse down on the desk," said John. Evan looked up, startled, then smiled a little. "I was looking at some photos from one of the first case files. I keep thinking there's something I missed." "Maybe. But then we've all missed it." "Yeah, I guess." Evan turned around and sat on the edge of his desk, one foot propped on the desk chair. John walked over to stand in front of him. "We'll figure it out... eventually. We have to." Evan gazed up at him. Half-sitting, his head was even with John's shoulders. They were only inches apart. A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Evan's mouth and his eyes raked down the length of John's body. An invitation?

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 91

John stood motionless for a moment, then slowly touched his fingertips against Evan's face. He was a little scared. The attraction between them was very definitely there. His mind flitted back to memories of Evan helping to put him back together after the "drug incident," the oh-so-brief kiss, and the arm around him in the conference room. This man was one of his colleagues, even if Evan didn't technically work for him. No matter how much John wished for this, maybe it was an insanely bad idea. Then he felt the brush of Evan's mind on his mental shielding, and he relaxed his defenses a little. From Evan, there was interest, curiosity, and a sense of composed stillness. It took him a moment to realize what was happening. Evan was grounding him, trying to sooth the half-wired, jittery stress in his body. It was... calming and yet arousing, too. He lowered his face to Evan's and kissed him. The kiss was returned with voracious interest, and John found himself backed against the wall beside the desk. Evan's tongue parted his lips and they were involved in a deep, open-mouth exploration. Lips sucking, teeth nibbling, tongues warring for dominance. John's breath was a ragged pant. Oh God, how he wanted more... And the door to the stairwell opened. *** Cecelia had intended to see if John was still in his office. She'd run across a stray hair when processing the latest victim's clothes and wanted to see if he had any thoughts, despite the fact it had no skin tag for DNA processing. She hadn’t expected to find her boss getting a tonsillectomy from the young DCPD detective. Not that he looked like he was objecting in any way. It was exactly the opposite. She stumbled back into the stairwell and down toward her lab. She'd watched when John was going through the agony of divorce. Was this why? He was actually gay and masquerading as straight to try to fit in? He wouldn't be the first. She had seen him with women, including the infamous Liz... Did he go both ways? She supposed it was possible, some people did. Either way, this was embarrassing. She grabbed her purse and headed out the door beside the garage to go home. *** Upstairs, John and Evan were staring at each other, frozen in the shock of discovery. "I've known Celi a long time. She won't say anything," said John. "She... won't be weirded out by... seeing two guys...?" "Doubt it. She used to work shock trauma. Still does one shift a month to keep her privileges active. That woman has nerves of steel. On the other hand, I thought only you and I were still in the building..."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 92

"Um, yeah. I oughta bug off home..." Evan said softly. It had been an unguarded moment, and it was just too awkward to try to continue. Evan picked up his jacket from the desk and walked toward the stairwell. *** Thursday, December 7, 2006 -- 4:45 a.m. On the table, the man began to convulse. Derek and Mark looked at each other across the sacrifice, and then glanced at Hugh. Derek made a hand motion to keep going. Mark painted the rest of the symbols on the man's body while Derek continued the incantation. "I do strongly conjure thee, O Telaroth, that thou dost forthwith appear unto me here. Come thou and manifest without delay. For thou art conjured by power and wherefore will fulfill thou my commands and persist thou unto the end according to mine interest. Appear unto me!" Derek rammed the knife into the center of the man's chest and tore downward. The energy wash was a silent explosion of brightness behind his eyes, then there was a rushing, ripping sound somewhere between tearing fabric and a wave crashing against a pier. The concussive force knocked all three men flat against the ground. A tall, shadowy form straddled the body, growing more solid by the second as blood poured from the gaping wound of the dying man. As his final twitches ceased, the demon could be fully seen. Nearly eight feet tall, it had a leathery, reptilian cast to its skin and hairless head. An enormously long, forked tongue protruded from its mouth and nearly foot-long claws scythed from bony fingers. Its body was vaguely humanoid, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, and somewhat disproportionately long legs. It hissed and glowered at the scene before it. "I command you to my w-w-will," Derek stuttered. "By what power do you hold me?" it hissed. "Um... uh..." Derek mentally fumbled for an answer. It wasn't supposed to ask questions. It wasn't supposed to challenge him. It was supposed to do what he told it. Mark managed to recall some commentary written in the margins of the grimoire pages. "By blood and by... um, ritual and by intent," he said. It swung its head to face him. "But the intent is not yours!" it screeched, and charged away into the night. "Oh... shit..." muttered Derek. "How do we get it back?" demanded Hugh. "I have no freakin' idea."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 93

Chapter 16

Cause of Death

Thursday, December 7, 2006 -- 4:50 a.m.

"Tell me again why you think Kevin Bitternmeir isn't just yanking our chain? I bet he's in a warm bed, laughing his ass off at the idea of us sitting around waiting for the stars to align and the psychos to eat leftover curry," said Stuart. John, Stuart, and Evan were sitting in one of SIS's Hummers parked on a side street that joined Tazewell. "He might be. He has a freakin' weird sense of humor. But the whole deal about the guy buying the knife is what makes me think this might be for real," replied John, as he took a sip out of his coffee cup. "If the sun comes up and nothing's happened, I'll buy you two breakfast." "I want bacon and eggs and hash browns," said Evan from the back seat. "Spoken by a guy who doesn't have to worry about his choles--" replied Stuart. His voice stopped in mid-sentence as a blast of ethereal energy left the three of them blinking and slightly dazed. Stuart, John, and Evan all glanced at each other in wide-eyed apprehension. Only the truly headblind could have missed the energy detonation that had just occurred. "What the fuck?" whispered John. "Bad shit, really bad shit," replied Evan. "Do we have any idea where it came from?" asked Stuart. John started the SUV. "Let's... drive down the street, slowly, and then circle back around and come up the parallel one."As he pulled out onto Tazewell, something enormous darted from a cross street, something that very definitely didn't look human. "Oh, fuck! Follow that thing!" shouted Stuart. The shadowy figure ran in and out of pools of light cast by the street lights and then whipped around a corner into an alleyway. John wrenched the steering wheel and the vehicle screeched around the corner after it. As John drove, Stuart was checking ammo clips, making sure they were full, putting them in his pocket. "Just how close to this thing do you think we're going to have to get to do it any damage?" asked Stuart. "I'm really not sure." John slammed on the brakes. The creature slowed and began to nose along the back doors of some shops. "There could be people in those stores getting ready to set up for the day. Some of them are restaurants."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 94

"I think we should fan out and try to corner it from a couple different angles. If we can contain it..." suggested Stuart. "Okay, Stuart, you hug the right-hand wall. I'll go up the middle and try to get its attention. Evan, cover the left side, and maybe we can back it in between a couple of the big-ass Dumpsters way up there near the end of the block," ordered John. "I'm not sure playing monkey in the middle with this thing is a good idea," snapped Stuart. "Yeah, well, I'm all about putting a full clip of bullets in this fucker at the first sign of trouble," replied John. The three men eased from the Hummer, and for the moment the entity seemed to pay them little to no attention. John walked carefully along the alley toward it, gun out. Stuart skirted around one of the smaller Dumpsters on the right wall. Suddenly, the creature whirled to look at him and made a half lunge in his direction. Stuart took a shot and it staggered a little, looking more stunned than injured. A reddish glow lit inside its eyes as it blinked and loped around a corner into an intersecting alley. "Did you hurt it?" yelled John. "Not sure," replied Stuart, edging toward the same corner. "Evan, go dig one of the two liters of holy water out of the Hummer," shouted John as he followed Stuart. Stuart eased around the corner and saw nothing. He started to dash forward in the direction of a pile of boxes, then stopped suddenly when the creature popped forward from a shadow just a couple of feet away from him. *** The demon drew itself up to its full height and let out a guttural snarl in Stuart's direction as a long, deadly arm swatted at him. One swipe. A claw tip ripped through Stuart's arm as he tried to aim his gun, and he staggered, clutching at his injured arm. The demon raised a razor-sharp hand for a second blow. John, only feet away, dove at Stuart, trying to knock him out of the way. The second swipe severed Stuart's head, and a spray of blood splattered outward. John fell short by inches, hitting the pavement hard, tearing his hand, elbow, and knee. He rolled, gun still in his hand, and fired at the demon, emptying his entire clip. The bullets made bright little sparks of light as they hit. The demon whirled, mad, and drew back a hand to swipe at John. Both of John's arms flew up in an instinctive but futile gesture to protect himself, gun falling from his fingers. ***

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 95

Returning from his dash to the truck, Evan skidded to a stop at the corner of the building, bottle of water in his hand. The demon was towering over where John and Stuart were on the ground. His heart just about stopped, then the demon suddenly gave a terrifying shriek and vanished. Silence. Echoing silence. And Evan realized that he saw blood. There were vast amounts of blood, blood pooled on the ground, blood all over John, and Stuart's head lay several feet from the rest of his body. Evan choked down a wave of nausea. John was slowly drawing himself up to his knees. John sat back on his heels, just staring at Stuart, both parts of him. Evan walked toward John, and John looked up. His face was blank, eyes wide. Evan dropped to one knee and laid a hand on John's shoulder. Evan wasn't sure how much of the blood was Stuart's and how much was John's. "How bad are you hurt?" Evan asked. John stared at him for a full minute, as if the words didn't register. "I'm fine," he eventually said, but it was obvious that it was merely an automatic response. John stood up. Evan noticed his 9mm lying on the ground. "Call Fiona and Todd. Tell them I need help with clean up. I'll call the coroner... in a... in a..." John swallowed hard. "In a few minutes." Evan picked up John's weapon and jammed it in his coat pocket. He dug out his cell phone as he watched his colleague stumble in the direction of the SUV. John was pulling a tarp out of the back of the Hum-vee, seemingly oblivious to the fact he was leaving heavy smears of blood on whatever he touched. His hand had been badly torn by the pavement. The blood from his damaged elbow and knee was soaking what was left of the fabric around them. Damage control, thought Evan. It was all about damage control. John draped the tarp over Stuart's body as Evan called Fiona's cell number and gave her an exceedingly brief description of what had happened. Under more "normal" circumstances, covering the body would have been a bad idea, thought Evan. It was tampering with unprocessed evidence. But this? Exactly how were they going to deal with the body of a man who had just been beheaded by a demon? A demon that had promptly vanished into thin air. Fiona and Todd arrived minutes later. Todd made a quick inspection of the area and glanced momentarily under the tarp. His face was grim. John was leaning against the wall at the far side of the alley, arms crossed, just watching. "We need a cover story," said Todd tersely to Fiona as she got off the phone with Cecelia and Rich. "Make it involve the actual people we've been chasing after."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 96

"All the murders thus far have involved stabbings. How does 'one of the perps is carrying a

katana, and he used it on Stuart' come across?" proposed Todd.

"It'll do. It's simple. The rest of this is going to fall under the official secrets case lock for us,

yes?" Fiona said.

"Yeah, I agree. How bad is John hurt?" "I don't know." She looked back over her shoulder toward the first Hummer. *** Evan had managed to convince John to sit on the tailgate of the H2 and had dragged out a first aid kit. He took hold of John's hand and looked at it. The skin across the bottom and side of his

palm was torn, bleeding, and dirty.

"I need to clean this off. It's probably going to hurt," Evan said.

John glanced at his hand. "Yeah, I guess so," he replied sort of absently.

Evan took hold of his hand and started cleaning off the blood and dirt and bandaging it. John

showed almost no sign of being aware what Evan was doing. John was obviously running on pure adrenaline and shock, Evan decided, as he brushed his mind very carefully against his colleague's. John pulled out his phone with his free hand and dialed Cecelia. "Hey, Celi. I need help." "Fiona just called me. We're halfway there. I take it the 'thing' you were following is no longer

there?" asked Cecelia.

"It's... gone. Don't know where. It killed Stuart. I have to tell Vanessa."

"That can wait an hour. Let me get there first, then we'll decide how to handle that. Are you

okay?"

"I'm fine. See you in a few." He thrust the phone back in his pocket and looked at Evan.

"You are not fine. You're bleeding and in shock," Evan said.

"Yeah, whatever. My head is still attached, isn't it?!" John snapped as he yanked his hand free of

Evan's grip. He slid off the tailgate and walked toward where Fiona and Todd were. *** Cecelia climbed out of the car and walked in the direction of the group. There was a fragmented discussion going on as to whether they wanted to deal with the coroner's office or take care of it

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 97

themselves. Cecelia bent down and glanced under the tarp. She heaved a heavy sigh and stood up again, turning to look at John. The needs of the living always outweighed the needs of the dead. John was splattered in blood, and she could see bandages on his hand and bleeding scrapes on his knee and elbow. Although he was both vertical and carrying on a conversation, she could see the shock setting in. His movements were jerky and his face ash-pale. "We have a body bag. I think the best thing is going to be to keep this in-house for the next few hours. Then we'll contact the funeral home and deal with the rest as needed," said Todd. "I have to tell Vanessa," John said. "Cecelia. Can I get you to come with me? I know she's going to be a wreck. I want you to stay with her." His tone was flat. "God... And there's Rob, too..." Cecelia laid a hand on John's arm. "First, you are going to let me check you out," she said firmly. "Then we are going back to the office, so you can shower and change clothes. Because you are not going to show up on Vanessa's doorstep covered in blood to tell her that her husband is dead!" John gave a vague nod and let her guide him back toward the Hum-vee, where Evan had left the first aid kit lying open on the tailgate. She expertly ran her hands down along his body, checking for injuries. There was nothing apparent. Blood was soaking through the bandage on his hand, and she set about re-doing it. "Can you... Is there any point in doing an autopsy?" John asked softly. His mind was obviously latching onto due process details as the shock took hold. "Not a full one, just the basics. Wiggle your fingers for me," Cecelia said, gently holding his injured hand. He complied. "And I'll do some basic cleanup before calling the funeral home. I'll tell them that there was significant trauma and that we don't want the family to see the body until it's been prepared. Okay, let me do your knee now." She pushed him further back onto the tailgate and glanced around the edge of the vehicle. Todd and Rich were unfolding the body bag. Evan and Fiona were double checking the area for evidence. "Do we let Vanessa tell Rob?" John asked. "I think we should send Todd to pick him up from the college. Aside from you, he's the one Rob knows best. I'll take you home. Let the team deal with the rest for the next couple of hours, then we'll go see Vanessa." "But shouldn't we go now? I don't want her to hear it from someone else." "John. Nobody but our people even knows what happened. There's no media. No police," she said carefully. What she really wanted to do was take him home and sedate him, to try to give him time to begin processing what had happened. However, that was unrealistic, at least for the moment. Instead, she settled for trying to distract him while the two separate pieces were being placed in the body bag. "We still don't know where the ritual took place. I think we should send

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 98

Rich on a recon around the area to see what he can find. Evan and Fiona can lend a hand once they're done here." "Yeah, that... sounds like a good idea. We have to figure out how to trace this batch of psychos, before... they kill the next one..." His voice trailed off. Back at the SIS building, Cecelia sent him to take a shower and change his clothes, with instructions that if she didn't see him out of the shower and dressed in half an hour, she'd come looking for him. In her lab, by herself, she set up the autopsy table to receive Stuart's body, and then sat down at her desk and quietly cried for the death of her friend and colleague. *** "Did we really get rid of big, bad-ass scary?" asked Hugh. After the disastrous loss of control, it had taken them a couple more minutes to figure out that breaking down and disassembling all the components that were supposed to hold the demon in corporeal form would end that state. It had reappeared before them for a mere second before being sucked back into the other dimension with a resounding pop. *** Thursday, December 7, 2006 -- 8:30 a.m. John and Cecelia stood at the front door of Vanessa and Stuart's home. Cecelia glanced at John as he knocked. He had showered and changed per her instructions, and she had re-bandaged the damage from his skid across the asphalt. His face was pale, and his expression a shocky blankness. She was worried about him. Years of working the ER had taught her to take care of the survivors. He was running on auto-pilot, and she wondered exactly what was going to happen when he stopped. Vanessa opened the door. She was dressed and had a shoe in one hand, apparently getting ready to go to work. "Morning. Stuart left, like, three hours ago. Something about stakeout relief?" Vanessa said. She dropped her shoe to the floor and jammed her foot into it, and then she froze. "Can we come in?" said John. Vanessa nodded and stepped back, an apprehensive look on her face. Cecelia shut the door behind them. "Vanessa... I'm so sorry," John said. He drew a shaky breath and continued. "Stuart is dead." Cecelia knew there was no easy way to say the words. Vanessa merely stared at him for a number of seconds as the words slowly registered. "What happened?" she whispered.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 99

"It was case related. It was all over in an instant. There was nothing we could do," said John. Cecelia put a hand on Vanessa's shoulder and guided her in the direction of the den, to sit on the sofa. "Is there a number for your work?" Cecelia asked. "I'll call them and let them know you won't be in." "On... the refrigerator. I'm supposed to be starting inventory today. I have to..." Vanessa's voice caught. Her hands twisted nervously at the fabric of her slacks. John stood in the hallway, staring blankly for a long moment before he followed the two women into the den. A blue stuffed recliner sat in the corner facing in the direction of the TV. He gingerly sank onto the edge. "Robbie... oh, what am I going to tell Robbie? He's at college," Vanessa whispered. "I sent Todd to get him. I... didn't want you to even consider driving down there," said John. He dropped to one knee in front of her, one of his hands covering hers. She looked down at his bandaged hand, her eyes searching his face. "He didn't... die alone... did he?" she asked. "No. I was only feet away. There was nothing I could do to stop it... I tried." "Are you okay?" "Yeah. If I could have been... faster..." "When he switched from the CIA to SIS, and stopped leaving the country every few months... I think I always expected this back then. Being in DC somehow seemed safer." She sniffled a little and laid her other hand on top of John's. "I'm glad it was you. From someone else... I would probably never have believed they even cared. The CIA was sometimes brutally impersonal." Cecelia watched the two of them and saw John's face go even paler. She suddenly realized Vanessa's grief, on top of the shock he had not yet even begun to deal with, was overwhelming him. "John, can you call her job and tell them she needs a leave of absence?" Cecelia said. He nodded mutely, but looked slightly relieved as he got up and walked into the kitchen. Vanessa sat huddled on the sofa. Cecelia glanced at her and at the doorway into the kitchen. Duty was done; she needed to get John away, somewhere he could decompress a little. She knew perfectly well he would claim he was capable of borrowing her car and driving back to the office himself. She needed someone to pick him up and keep an eye on him. The image of John and Evan engaged in a passionate kiss in the workroom came to mind, followed by the memory of Evan sitting at John's bedside in the ICU. Of the limited number of people she could choose from, he seemed to be the best option. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Rich.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 100

"Ciavelli," he answered.

"It's Cecelia. Is Evan with you? I don't have a number for him."

"Yeah, hang on a second," replied Rich.

After a minute, Evan came on the line. "This is Evan. What's up?"

"Can I get you to come pick John up from Vanessa's house? I don't want him driving back to the

office by himself."

"Yeah, sure. We're close to done here. Todd took... Stuart back to SIS. My car's there. But we're

pretty close to the Metro. I'll swing by the building, get my car, and be there inside an hour,

probably. Is that okay?"

"Yes, that'd be great. See you shortly."

When Cecelia told John she had made arrangements to get him a lift back home, he made a token

complaint about being capable of driving, but then let it go.

True to his estimate, it took about an hour for Evan to get there. Cecelia drew Evan aside before

he and John left.

"He's still in shock. Please, keep an eye on him. I'm worried."

"I will," promised Evan.

*** Thursday, December 7, 2006 -- 11:45 a.m. The drive back to SIS was silent. John looked out the window. He was numb. Nothing was registering inside. When they got there, John shuffled toward his office, then turned and glanced back at Evan. "Are you heading home?" John asked.

"No, not yet."

"I... um... have to do the report. You were there. I could use some help," said John.

"Sure, no problem," said Evan.

John sat down in his office behind his desk. He had a report to type.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 101

"How 'bout a cup of coffee?" asked Evan from the doorway. John nodded. Evan returned in a couple of minutes and set the cup on the desk. John had typed a few lines. He gulped down about half the cup. "Who do these reports go to?" asked Evan. "A guy at the Pentagon. He funnels them into Homeland Security, more or less," replied John. He typed a couple more lines. Realized he had horribly misspelled a batch of words, including "sverd hed." His stomach clenched and he bolted for the kitchen, vomiting into the sink repeatedly. *** Evan caught hold of John as he staggered backward a step from the kitchen sink, knees buckling beneath him, and eased him to the floor. John sat with his forehead pressed to his knees, arms hugged under his legs, shaking hard enough to chatter his teeth. Evan put his arms around John's shoulders and pulled the man's head against his chest. There was so little he could do for John. After a few minutes, the shaking dissolved into tears, hard, heart-wrenching sobs. Evan just sat and held him, rubbing his hand down John's back for a long time. Once the emotional storm had become hiccupping gasps, Evan hauled John to his feet and pushed him toward the elevator. Fiona had told him the day before that John had living quarters upstairs. Talk about a guy welded to his work. On the top floor, he guided John's stumbling steps out, made a wild guess at where the bedroom might be, ended up in a den of sorts, and found the bedroom on the second try. He gently forced John down onto the bed. The man gave Evan a totally vacant look. "Go to sleep," Evan said. He brushed his fingers down over John's bloodshot eyes. They didn't reopen. He glanced around and saw a blanket haphazardly flung on a chair. As he picked it up and drew it over John's slack form, he thought about his promise to Cecelia. Her concern had obviously been warranted. Even though he hadn't actually seen the decapitation, Evan still felt fairly rattled himself. Getting some sleep of his own might be a good idea, especially after getting up at three a.m. He had seen a sofa in the den. He'd slept in horse trailers, a sofa would do just fine. He walked toward the other room. A decently long sofa upholstered in navy blue faced a long window. One side of the room was all bookshelves. Curious, he glanced at titles. Some fiction, a lot of architecture books about castles and cathedrals and other Gothic styles. A handful of religious books, it was just a little weird to see a Bible parked between a copy of Tao te Ching and Stewart Farrar's What Witches Do. A fairly large plasma-screen TV hung on the wall. There were no photos and no art work. Maybe John hadn't lived here that long. Evan shrugged out of his shoulder holster and laid it on the coffee table in front the sofa. He flipped off the light switch, kicked off his sneakers, and stretched out on the couch.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 102

Evan had been asleep a couple of hours when he was woken by terrified screams. A very light sleeper to start with, he made a mad grope for his gun, yanking it free from the holster, and sprinted toward the bedroom, stumbling over something in the dark along the way. In the dim, late afternoon light from the window, he could see John thrashing violently on the bed. No one else was present. Nothing threatening. The lamp skittered sideways across the nightstand and tipped over onto the floor as John's arm slammed into the piece of furniture. Damn, he was liable to hurt himself badly if Evan didn't wake him up fast. He laid his gun on the dresser and grabbed John's wrists. "John! Wake up! It's a dream!" he yelled. John fought against him. John was strong, but there was no coordination to his movements. Evan finally flung his body on top of John's. He was thinner, all ropy muscles, whereas John was simply heavier built and obviously lifted weights. Evan bet on his body weight holding John at least mostly still. "John! John!" he shouted. Slowly, the body beneath him stopped fighting, but was still breathing hard. "You awake now?" he asked slowly. "Uh-huh," John grunted. "Good." Evan started to slide off of him. John's arms locked around him. "Stay..." he whispered. Evan was motionless. He could feel the muscle tremors in John's body. "Please..." His voice was barely audible, despite the fact their faces were only a couple of inches apart. Evan could feel John's lingering terror still clawing at him. "Easy. I'm not going anywhere." Evan slid off, but in the other direction, to lie on the bed beside John. John's arms were still around him, hands fisted into the fabric of Evan’s shirt. He lay clinging to Evan in the dusky light from under the curtain edge, face buried against Evan's shoulder. Evan stroked gentle fingers along John's back, offering him both physical and emotional comfort. An intermittent series of shudders racked John’s body. After a long time, John's grip loosened as he slid back into sleep. Evan lay feeling the even breaths against his shirt and worrying about the man in his arms. *** Friday December 8, 2006 John woke alone. Groggy, feeling hung over, he wondered if he had dreamed of sleeping up against Evan. Images from the previous day flitted painfully through his head: Stuart's headless body, Vanessa's grief, the body bag, the face of the demon preparing to strike. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at his bandaged hand. When he flexed it, it hurt, and he could feel the gauze pulling at the damaged skin beneath. A sound drew his attention. He looked up.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 103

Evan stood in the doorway of the bedroom with his sneakers in his hand.

"You okay?" Evan asked.

"Yeah, I guess."

"I gotta go. The precinct thinks they're having a crisis. As if. I'll be back in a couple of hours, I

hope."

"Thank you," said John. It was the only thing he could think of to say.

Evan gave him a half smile and left.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 104

Chapter 17

Post-mortem

Friday December 8, 2006 -- 10 a.m.

Cecelia debated on the merits of hiking up the stairs for a cup of coffee before she sat down at her desk to look at email. She was delaying the inevitable. Eventually, she was going to have to give Stuart's body at least a cursory exam before releasing it to the funeral home. Last night had been a late one. She had stayed with Vanessa for a substantial portion of the day and evening. It had taken a couple of hours for Vanessa's sister and brother-in-law to get there, then a couple of close friends had come. Finally, Todd brought Rob after having picked him up from college. She had seen Evan's car in the parking lot when she arrived this morning. She had been the first one in, and her mind leaped on the assumption that he had stayed all night with John. What that entailed, exactly, she wasn't entirely sure she needed to know. She heard footsteps on the stairs and glanced out the door. Evan was heading for the door that led out through the garage. Cecelia walked out of her lab. "How is he?" she asked. "At the moment, I think he's just numb," replied Evan. She thought Evan looked tired and frazzled to some degree, too. "Did he sleep at all?" she asked. "Yeah, some. He had a pretty bad nightmare." "Did he talk about Stuart's death?" "No. Truthfully, I'm not sure he's even begun to reach that level of processing yet." "Okay, it's probably too soon, anyway. If he makes an attempt to talk to you about it, please listen. I'm not entirely sure I can get him to talk to me. I wasn't there. You were." She sighed. He nodded. "I've gotta go. The captain's sent me two texts and called me. There's gang stuff going on. I'll get back here as soon as I can." "Hang tight for a just a second," she said. Cecelia ducked back into the lab and grabbed a key card from her desk drawer. She came back out and handed it to him. He looked surprised. "I know I'm violating protocol," she said, "but at this point, if we can't trust you with access to the building, we're hosed anyway. That's my spare. I'll tell Fiona to change the program to reflect that it means you're the one coming and going."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 105

"Thanks," said Evan softly. "This... means a lot." *** Evan gave his captain an apology and a partial explanation for being so hard to reach. Captain Pender gave him a long, sober look. Losing a man in the line of duty was excruciatingly hard on any law enforcement group. He knew enough to realize just how badly it hit a small agency. *** Showered and dressed, raw, scraped skin bandaged, John dragged himself down to his office. The rest of the team was slowly filtering back in. Fiona and Todd were the first in, and they hovered in the workroom, trying to deal with the small amount of evidence from the scene of the murderous demon. It had been barely twenty-four hours since Stuart's death, and they were only beginning to pick up the pieces of the investigation that had ground to a screeching halt the previous day. In both an effort to distract himself from the grief and goad his mind into seeking vengeance on those responsible, John erased the huge white board of all its notes. Fiona had meticulously recorded them in a file anyway. He wrote a string of dates down the side, the dates of each murder. 9/14 Thursday 10/14 Saturday 10/25 Wednesday 11/10 Friday 12/7 Thursday After standing staring at them for several minutes, he went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and came back to stand in front of the board, marker in one hand, cup in the other. "Why aren't there any Sundays, Mondays, or Tuesdays?" he said to Fiona and Todd. They looked at each other. "Maybe it has to do with work schedules?" suggested Todd. "Maybe. We have two separate Thursdays. Also, two fourteenths of the month." "Wait, back up. You wrote the dates the bodies were found. Not necessarily the date the murders occurred," said Fiona. "The second one could have occurred anywhere from the third to the sixth of October, according to the autopsy report, I think. I'm not sure. Where did we put the autopsy report for that one, anyway?" John asked. "One of the file cabinets," said Fiona.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 106

"Can you find it for me?" said John.

"Yeah, sure, give me a few minutes."

While she went to the other end of the room to hunt for it, John scribbled Days? Jobs? & Work

Schedules? on the board. *** Fiona had to think for a minute which file cabinet the report would be in. She undoubtedly had a scan of it on her computer, but sometimes John liked to see the hard copies. Fiona fought with a stubborn drawer on one of the filing cabinets. The drawer refused to open. Todd walked toward

her. He looked vaguely amused.

"Need a hand?" he asked.

"Unh, this one always jams. Damn thing!" She yanked on it some more without success.

"Looks like you're getting your ass kicked," Todd teased.

She made a growl of frustration. "Have at it. Do I get to laugh when you can't get it open either?"

"Don't think that's too likely," he smirked. Bent forward a little, Todd braced the toe of one shoe

against the base and yanked. The drawer dragged open with an amazingly loud and raucous

screech of metal on metal.

Behind them, they heard the sound of ceramic shattering on the floor, and the snick-snick of a

round being chambered. Todd's head whipped around as he shoved Fiona back against the wall.

John was standing by the white board, eyes wide, body rigid, his gun aimed at the spot where

Fiona had been.

"John?" Todd said slowly. "Put the gun down. It's okay. It was just a noise." John's hand shook

slightly. He was staring fixedly at... nothing. Todd moved slowly toward him, staying off to one

side, out of the direct line of fire. His hand closed around John's and pressed the gun toward the

floor, gently pulling it free from John's hand. Todd thumbed the safety on and laid the gun on the

floor. He carefully gripped John's shoulders.

"Hey, look at me. You're safe. It was nothing," said Todd.

John's eyes slowly focused on his colleague. "I... It was... I broke... I could've..." John mumbled.

"Come sit down." Todd steered him in the direction of the sofa.

John sank onto it, arms wrapped around his body. "I could've shot Fiona..." John whispered. His

entire body was shaking.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 107

"But you didn't. It was a reflex. It happens. I've seen a whole lot of soldiers do just about the same thing," Todd reassured him *** Fiona had dashed down the stairs to get Cecelia. The two women came into the workroom, and Cecelia crossed quickly to John. She sat on the sofa beside him and cupped his face in one hand, checking his pulse with the other. It was racing, and he was very pale. "John, honey, I think you should lie down," Cecelia said. "I'm okay," he whispered. "No, you're not. Not even close." She put both arms around him and pulled him tightly against her body, head to her shoulder. She wasn't sure if holding him so closely was psychically comfortable or not, especially after the things he had intimated he had experienced during the whole scopolamine episode. On the other hand, she wasn't about to let go, either. He was still shaking. She rocked him softly for several minutes until he finally began to relax. Todd slowly picked up the pieces of the broken cup, and Fiona got a sponge from the kitchen to mop up the spilled coffee. They were both essentially hovering, watching John. It wasn't like John had never screamed at people in anger, but nothing like this. Cecelia inclined her head, indicating they should walk away, and silently mouthed the word "later." They nodded and headed toward the far end of the room. "I think I should give you a sedative. You're just barely holding it together. You need some rest," she said. "No. Really. I'll be okay." "Bullshit. You have PTSD. You need some rest, and you need to talk to someone." "I'm fine!" he snapped. He lunged up off the sofa and walked out of the room and down the stairs. Cecelia gave him about fifteen seconds before she headed after him. "Is there anything we can do?" asked Todd. "Not really. On second thought, go take the keys to the trucks. I don't want him behind the wheel," Cecelia said. Todd nodded, and Cecelia jogged down the stairs. *** John flung his empty holster on the top of one of the Hummers parked in the garage and strode out of the building... and he walked. Obliviously to the cold, he blindly followed the sidewalk

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 108

away from the building for close to two miles. He finally slowed as he crossed to a little park tucked between some residential streets and another major road. There was a little sign declaring it to be Eads Park. It wasn't really anything much. Trees surrounded an empty grass space, a paved path, some playground equipment, and a slightly decrepit wooden gazebo off to one side. He walked toward it and sat on the rail, feet on the bench. He drew a long breath and let it out, barely noticing the faint steam cloud. Images flitted through his brain: Stuart's body, Fiona's startled expression in the workroom, the fabric of Cecelia's sweater as his face was pressed to her shoulder, vast quantities of blood on the pavement... It was all just churning through him. Why was he still alive when Stuart wasn't? What quirk of fate had caused the demon to vanish? He'd sent Evan back to the SUV for holy water, but Evan had returned mere seconds later, just as the demon was disappearing without the water ever being used. John looked at his hand. The bandages were peeling at the edge. He had done a seriously halfassed job after his shower. When he flexed his hand, he could feel the sharp sting of the torn skin. His knee and elbow weren't faring much better, and the vicious cycle whirled through his brain again. Stuart was dead, and all he had suffered was annoyingly painful road rash. A hard, involuntary shiver ran through him, and it slowly registered that he had walked a couple of miles in thirty-degree weather in only his jeans and a rugby shirt. How stupid. He slid carefully off the rail and headed back across the park, but his feet didn't lead him in the direction of home. He veered left toward the western end of Twenty-Third Street. John walked into the stone church building of St. Bartholomew's. Chilled to the bone, teeth chattering, and shivering uncontrollably, he sank into a pew, grateful for the warmth of the building. Head bowed forward, resting against folded hands that were braced on the bench in front of him, he closed his eyes. The church was quiet. Muted road sounds and the distant sound of a pop radio station barely disturbed the hush. "Did it ever occur to you that a coat would be a good idea? Being December and all." John's head jerked up at the sound. It was Nick, Father Nick Finnian, to be precise, Catholic priest and supplier of holy water in two-liter bottles when necessary. He was fifty years old, his jet-black hair beginning to gray at the temples. His tall, lanky form was dressed in dark slacks and a gray pullover. "I kind of... forgot," said John, making an attempt to smile and failing miserably. "You knew I was coming." It was a statement rather than a question: yet another facet of the man before him. Father Nick was a precog. Inasmuch as any human might get glimpses of future events, he frequently got hints of things that hadn't happened yet. John and Nick had met a couple of years ago, rather literally over a man possessed by a dark entity. SIS case versus the Catholic Church. "Come back to the office. I'll get you a cup of coffee and try to thaw you out a bit," said Nick. John dragged himself off the bench and followed.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 109

In the office, John settled on the sofa against the wall as Nick handed him a warm cup. The older man sat in an upholstered chair at an angle to the sofa. "So, you wanta tell me what inspired you to wander around in the freezing cold in your shirtsleeves?" Nick prompted. His tone was gentle but carried the undertone of an order. "Stuart's dead," said John, flatly. "Oh... I'm sorry. I know the two of you were close." "He was killed... by... fuck, I can't even say it." "Take your time. How's his family dealing with it?"

"As well as can be expected, I suppose... I... His head got cut off by a demon," John blurted out.

"I tried to save him. I wasn't close enough. I missed and there was nothing I could do!" The

words tumbled out at an almost incoherent rate. Nick sat in silence for several minutes as John

spat out details, out of order and without a great deal of logic.

"God, I sound like I've absolutely lost my mind!" he finished, sniffling back unshed

tears.

"Only to someone else, John. I know better."

They spent an hour talking, touching on everything from the actual event to John's reflex action

in the workroom to just simple grief and loss. It helped, a little. Nick foisted a sweater onto John.

Knitted by a sweet if slightly batty dear old member of the church, Nick told John it was far too

big for him and John should borrow it.

"Bring it back when you come to Mass," said Nick. John rolled his eyes just a little. His

attendance was sparse at best; much as he might sometimes wish to be "good and faithful," there

were too many church concepts he just didn't agree with anymore.

"Hey, I have to try, it's in my job description." Nick grinned. John nodded and gave his friend a lukewarm smile and headed for the door. "John?" "Yeah?" "Come back. Even if it's just to talk." John nodded again and left. ***

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 110

Late that afternoon, the body of an adult male was discovered in a Dumpster at the far end of Tazewell. Rich and Todd worked the scene, with later help from Fiona and Cecelia. Gutted and naked, duct tape residue on his wrists and ankles, it was obviously a body dump. Identification would probably take a while. *** Saturday Dec 9, 2006 John Benchley drove to the precinct where Evan was assigned and spent a number of minutes talking to the captain. He apologized for continually drawing Evan away from his police department responsibilities, but told the man it was necessary and would probably continue for an unknown amount of time until the people responsible were caught. The captain was less than thrilled, but did at least appreciate the effort to keep him in the loop. He made his offer of sympathy for John's loss, saying he knew the heavy weight of the death of a fellow law officer. John eventually made his way to Evan's desk. Evan was busy plowing through a stack of paperwork. He looked up as John handed him an envelope. "My report. I finally finished it. Can you, um, read it when you're not likely to get interrupted?" John shoved his hands into pockets. "It's not exactly light reading. And there are... security issues." "Sure. But that might not be 'til late tonight," said Evan, locking the folder in his desk drawer. "Sorry I've been slacking on the stuff for SIS the past two days, but eight gang murders in three days... It's a real mess, and they needed me to pull my weight. I promise I will read it before tomorrow." "That'd be fine. I just need to submit it by the end of the week. Can you swing by the office tomorrow morning? We're still trying to get back up to speed on the rest of the case. I know I'm pulling you away from stuff you need to do here, but you're needed." "What time?" "Ten or so. I'd like to have a staff meeting, just a brief one. The funeral..." His voice broke and he had to swallow hard before continuing. "The funeral is at three." *** Saturday, December 9, 2006 -- 10 p.m. Evan sat in his apartment, feet propped on the coffee table, file in his lap. "It wasn't exactly light reading" was a definite understatement. He had witnessed the majority of the events contained within the report. He hadn't had to type it. It was brutally cold and factual, maybe needlessly so, but then he wasn't sure he could've done any better. He made one note in the margin. "I think you should include that you very nearly suffered the same fate as Stuart."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 111

Evan sat thinking for a while, remembering bandaging John's bloody hand, watching his total automaton behavior, and holding him when the shock finally caught up and he lost all control. After falling asleep desperately clinging to Evan, John hadn't said a single word about it since the "thank you" that morning. Evan supposed John was embarrassed. Men weren't supposed to cry. And men weren't supposed to hang onto another man for comfort in the face of nightmares all too close to reality. Evan smiled just a little at the thought. John was gorgeous. His dark hair always looked like he'd run his fingers through it too many times. He had an amazing smile, delicious lips, broad shoulders, nicely defined muscles... They had shared a couple of kisses. There was definitely the potential for something between them. Evan considered the stress of the case and the trauma of Stuart's death. He was completely uncertain if John wanted a lover or was just in desperate need of a friend during a really rough time, someone to understand. Evan felt a certain guilt at being yanked back into police department business when SIS, and John in particular, were still reeling from Stuart's death. He closed the file and looked at the clock. It was midnight, time to grab some sleep. *** Sunday, December 10, 2006 -- 9:55 a.m. Evan swiped the key card that Cecelia had given him through the lock on the door. It felt just a little weird to have that much access. Cecelia was walking through the garage toward her lab as he came in. "We're running late. Or, more precisely, Rich is. His car battery died and he's not going to get here for another half hour or so," she said. "John said to send you up to his office when you got here." "Okay. I read his report. Very... efficient," finished Evan, at a loss for a good descriptive word. Cecelia sighed. "If he seems inclined to talk about it, encourage him. He needs to," she begged, a reiteration of her previous plea. Evan nodded. Police departments had support systems and protocols in place for when you lost a partner in the line of duty. SIS was so tiny, there didn't seem to be anything analogous. Then again, how exactly did you go about explaining to the department shrink that your second in command had been beheaded by a demon in front of your eyes? Evan walked across the workroom. John's office door was open, and he was sitting cross-legged on his desk chair. Even after seeing him do that a number of times, Evan had never quite figured out how that qualified as comfortable. John looked up as Evan leaned on the door frame. Deep circles shadowed John's eyes, and he looked like he hadn't slept much in past couple of days.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 112

"Cecelia said we're waiting on Rich," said Evan. "Yeah. Grab the junk on that chair and just stick it on the floor. I need to talk to you," John motioned in the direction of the other chair pushed into the corner of his office. Evan sat down, legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. He regarded the man behind the desk. John practically radiated stress, and his fingers toyed nervously with an ink pen. "I know the timing just absolutely sucks, especially since the funeral is today, but... I have an offer to make," said John. "Oh?" "With Stuart... gone. I'm shorthanded. I need to fill his spot. Obviously, it's a job that's dangerous as all hell. But you think fast. And you don't flake out when it gets weird. I'd like you to come work for us. Stuart and I talked about it before..." His voice faltered. "You weren't supposed to be his replacement, you were suppose to be an additional team member..." "Do I get to think about it?" asked Evan slowly. "Yes. I know it's... a very big decision. I do need to know in a couple of days, though. If you decide it's not for you, I need to hunt elsewhere," said John. Evan nodded. "In the meantime, we still desperately need you to continue lending a hand on this case." "I'll give you an answer by... Wednesday? "Fair enough. Are you coming to the funeral?" John's voice trailed off and he let out a slow shaky breath. "Yes of course. I put a suit in my car." "Thanks," said John. Evan could see the shine of unshed tears brimming in his eyes. There was the sound of conversation from the workroom as Rich came out of the door from the stairwell, followed by Todd and Cecelia. *** Sunday December 10, 2006 -- 3 p.m. The funeral was agonizing. Weak sunlight intermittently breaking through the clouds seemed almost like an insult. John stood at the graveside with Fiona, Todd, and Rich. Cecelia was on the other side of the coffin, keeping a watchful eye on Vanessa and Rob, even though their extended family was there en masse to support them.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 113

As people drifted away from the gravesite, John remained. He stared almost blindly at the coffin. Dad, Russ, Mom, Doug, Sean, Stuart. Too many deaths. He had stood at too many graves of people he cared about. Stuart had been a close friend, about as close to family as John had. He felt hollow. He jerked when a hand touched his shoulder, startled. It was Evan. "You look like shit," Evan said. This drew a light snort of bitter laughter from John. "You want a lift back to the office? Or to Vanessa's?" asked Evan. John closed his eyes for a moment. He wasn't sure he could face the wake at Vanessa's and watch Rob do his best to shoulder the mantle of adulthood, in that way that only hit you when you lost a parent. "If you could just give me a lift back to office, that would be... good," John replied. "I'll go to see Vanessa later." They walked across the grass of the cemetery, cutting in between rows of headstones. The drive was nearly silent. Evan made several attempts to start a conversation, but John couldn't bring himself to answer with more than a word to two. In the narrow parking lot outside the SIS building, Evan made one more try. "Would you like me to hang around for a while? I know everyone else is at the wake." "No. It's fine. I... have some stuff to do," said John. He climbed out of the car and let himself in through the mag-lock door. *** In the silence of the workroom, John tossed his trench coat, suit jacket, and tie on the sofa. He retrieved an empty copier paper box from the top of one of the file cabinets and sat in the chair at Stuart's desk. This was a job best done in solitude. He started with the bottom drawer. There were half a dozen folders from cases that had turned out to be far too mundane to warrant SIS involvement, a couple of legal pads with scribbled notes, diagrams, and doodles. He stacked them on the floor temporarily. Some of it would get filed and some shredded. He worked his way through the other drawers. Most of it was similar flotsam. There were a couple of candy bars, a lawn and garden magazine with folded pages of planting containers. The scrawl across the top of the page read, "Would these blow off the roof?" Stuart had this semicrazy idea that they should turn the roof of the building into a garden for having lunch when the weather was good. Jammed in between the pages was a list of prices for benches. John sat for a long moment with the magazine in his hands before walking into his office and putting the magazine in the drawer of his own desk. He returned to Stuart's desk and pulled open the pencil drawer. It contained direct deposit pay stubs, a litter of pens and paperclips, Post-its, and more notes Stuart had written to himself. One sheet said, "Price new lacrosse stick for Robbie," another looked like a grocery list in Vanessa's

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 114

handwriting, and a folded printout from the National Building Museum website. That one had a comment reading, "Tell John that David MacCauley exhibition is coming." Tears threatened when he read that one. He remembered a good-natured argument between him and Stuart about which architecture was aesthetically sweeter, Gothic or Modern. Choking back the burn of the emotion, he picked up items from the desk top. There was a high school graduation photo of Rob and another of Vanessa and Stuart on a sunny beach, a coffee cup emblazoned with "I used to work for the CIA, but I got better," and a paperback copy of The Destroyer #67. All of them went into the box. John leaned his elbows on the desktop, chin braced on folded fingers, feeling the discomfort of the barely healing damage on his palm. Would Evan be using this desk? A part of him wanted it to be Evan, someone he already knew, someone he already trusted. Part of him didn't want it to be anybody at all. It seemed too much like rubbing sand across his torn skin, but somewhere practicality had to kick in.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 115

Chapter 18

Choices

Sunday, December 10, 2006 -- 6 p.m.

Evan drove through the city, heading in the direction of his apartment after spending a brief time at the wake and offering condolences to Vanessa and Rob. He was thinking about the job offer. Could he do that sort of thing on a permanent basis? Geez, he'd seen the guy he'd be replacing lying on the ground in two distinct pieces, beheaded by a demon. Though he hadn't actually seen the blow, his imagination could supply the details. He'd always known there were bad things, unspeakable things just out of sight. Post-ritual banter in the coven and candid conversations between the pagan adults in his life as he was growing up had made him aware that possibilities existed. But like the average world, he had never wanted to acknowledge them. Maybe the position had to be filled by someone like him, who already knew hints of what was out there. At the row house, he grabbed the stack of mail off the table in the foyer on his way up toward his apartment. Once inside, he stood motionlessly for a long moment. In the silence of his den, his mind bubbled forth the events of the day and he felt a wash of grief for a man he'd hardly known. He needed to set that aside and focus on the choice he had to make. He thought about calling Brigid. He needed the opinion of someone totally removed from the situation. He flopped on the sofa and reached to his belt to pull off his cell phone. It rang as his hand hit it. Evan glanced at the caller ID. Brigid. He smiled and answered it. "So, tell me what's got you thinking so hard about me, big brother?" said Brigid. "You're never going to let me forget those seven minutes, are you?" "Oh, come on, you used to practically beat me over the head with the 'I was born first' when we were kids!" she teased him, and he laughed. "You sound... uptight," she said, returning to a more serious tone. "I guess you could say that. I got offered a job today." "A serious offer?" "Yes. SIS, the government group I've been pinch-hitting for." "That sounds great!" Brigid effused. "Yes and no. It's complicated." "Okay, spill. Tell me why," Brigid prompted. Evan spent half an hour telling her as much about the case as he dared. One of the SIS personnel had died in the line of duty. He seemed to fit well with the group, but it was scary dangerous.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 116

She pried out his thoughts about the director, John Benchley. That sounded so strange on Evan’s

lips because he had seldom heard John use his title, usually introducing himself as "Agent."

"Is he cute?" she asked.

"Brig!"

"Oh, get real. I can hear it in your voice. You like him. And I don't mean the friendly slap on the

back sort of way, either. You'd jump him, if he was interested. Is he interested?

"Yeah, sort of... He's bi, like me."

"So?"

"It's complicated. He's gone through a hell of a lot in the past couple of weeks. I don't know how

much of what's between us is real and how much is a product of the situation."

"The two are not necessarily separate issues. So back to -- is he cute?"

"Brig... okay, fuck, he looks like a Pre-Raphaelite wet dream, with really short hair!" admitted

Evan.

"Now, how difficult was that? Sounds gorgeous."

"Oh, God, if Rossetti drew guys..." he whispered, and she giggled.

"Okay, keep it in your pants, Ev. If you work for him, is this going to be a good thing or make

things just too freaking weird?"

"I wish I knew. Being involved with someone I work with... Could be great. Could be

horrendous. SIS is just so far out of the box."

"How's the pay?" she asked.

"Hell if I know."

"Dumbass. Despite the fact you live like a monk half the time, money does actually make a

difference. Some, anyway. I think you need to ask a whole lot more questions before you jump

into this. "

The two of them went round and round various pros and cons. Brigid's eventual comment was,

"Can you think of anyone else you think would be better suited to the job?"

"No, not really. I keep trying to envision somebody like Kyle Matheson, who is an awesome cop by the way, facing the idea that his boss is a telepath and he needs to find out who is responsible for raising a murderous demon. I think the poor guy's head would explode."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 117

This produced another giggle from Brigid. "Okay, come at it from a different angle. Can you consent to a trial run? If it's just too awful, could you go back to the DCPD? Not burning your bridges and all?" "I don't know. Guess that brings me back to the whole needing to ask a lot more questions." *** Sunday, December 10, 2006 -- 7 p.m. John slowly walked up the stairs to his quarters. In the den, he crossed to one of the book shelves and pulled off a bottle of Jameson's Irish whiskey and a tumbler. Settling on the sofa, he picked up the TV remote and flipped channels until he found something that looked remotely interesting on the History Channel. Pouring a generous amount into the glass, he knocked back nearly half of it, relishing the burn for a moment before refilling his glass. *** Monday, December 11, 2006 -- 9:45 a.m. Cecelia stood in front of the coffee pot in the workroom, pouring herself a cup. Todd came toward her. "Hey, have you seen John? I was trying to decide if we were heading in the direction of reinterviewing witnesses or focusing on the site of the last murder or the body dump," he said. "I haven't seen him. Fiona?" "Me, neither. Building log shows he used the side door to come in last night. No record of leaving," Fiona said, running a computer check. Cecelia glanced at her watch. Nine forty-five. It was very unlike John to be missing first thing in the morning without some indication of a reason. She headed for the stairs, worried. On the fourth floor, she heard the faint sounds of voices. Was he on the phone? Going through the open door to his quarters, she realized it was the TV. John was sprawled on his stomach on the couch, one arm hanging off, fully dressed except for his shoes. A whiskey bottle sat on the coffee table, an inch or so of liquid left in it. She hoped to hell it hadn't been full at the start of last night. She knelt down on the carpet beside the sofa. His face was turned sideways and he was drooling on the sofa cushion. She laid a hand on his shoulder and shook him. He made a faint sound of protest and batted at her arm. "John. Wake up."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 118

"G'way. Lemme 'lone"

"John!" She grabbed him by the hair and one shoulder, forcing him to roll up on his side.

"Ow! Whathefuck?" He pushed weakly at her and squinted one eye open.

"Drinking yourself into unconsciousness is both stupid and dangerous! Did you drink nearly the

whole damn bottle!?"

"...No... only half full to start with... wha're you doin' here?" he mumbled.

"It's almost ten a.m. And the rest of us wondered where the hell you were!"

"Shit." He closed his eyes and flung an arm over his face.

"So I decided maybe I should check to see if you were still alive, and find you passed out and

hung over. Jesus, John! Of all the stupid crap!" she ranted at him.

He merely groaned. "'Kay... okay, 'm awake. Oh, God, I feel like shit..."

"You should. Get up, go take a shower," she ordered.

He managed to scrape himself off the sofa and stumble in the direction of the bathroom.

*** Twenty-five minutes later, John wandered into his kitchen wearing a towel wrapped around his

waist. He grimaced a little when he saw that Cecelia was waiting for him.

"About damn time! I was beginning to think you'd passed out in the shower," she snapped. He

glared at her, or at least it was supposed to be a glare. She was unfazed and thrust a bottle of

Gatorade into his hand.

"Drink it," she ordered.

"I was actually hunting for coffee."

"No. You're dehydrated as all hell. Drink that." He huffed out a long sigh and leaned against the counter as he followed orders. Her eyes raked down the length of his body. If it had been anybody but Celi, he would have thought she was speculating on what was under the towel. But she knew every inch of his body, every stitch she had ever put in, every scrape she had ever treated. Her gaze took in the abraded and scabbing skin on his knee, elbow, and hand from his skid across the pavement.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 119

"Sit. I need to re-dress your road rash. You're not taking any better care of these wounds than you are of the rest of your body," the doctor growled at him. He sank into a straight-back chair beside the small kitchen table as she ripped open a pack of gauze. He flinched as she put ointment across the ripped skin of his knee. She glanced up at his face like she was daring him to complain. "Did Todd or Rich have another look at the site for... God, I can't remember the name of last victim... Greer? Green?" John asked, avoiding the issue of his drinking binge. "Try Grimaldi. And no, not yet. Todd wants to know if that's where you think we should concentrate our current focus... Damn it! Hold still!" Her fingers clenched around his wrist as he tried to jerk away from the pad being pressed against his injured palm. Worry, deep worry about him; John could feel it seeping from her, despite her angry frown and snarky attitude. His shielding was weak -- too much headache, too much pain, and too fucking tired. "I'm sorry..." he said softly. "How the hell am I supposed to get the tape to stay on your hand if you keep yanking it away?" "No, I meant about..." his voice trailed off and he stared at the ceiling. She released her grip on his arm and took his head in her hands, forcing him to look at her. "Sometimes life just plain sucks. Don't make me have to bury another friend," she said. Her gaze held his for a long moment, and he felt the swirl of suppressed grief through her head. He nodded. "Get dressed. Come downstairs. I have no idea what the hell we're doing for lunch. But we're all trying to get our shit in gear." *** Monday, December 11, 2006 -- 7 p.m. The radio was playing psychotically annoying Christmas music, and Evan Garrett punched the buttons on his car radio several times before finding something both rock and acceptable. He pulled into the SIS parking lot. He was tired, having spent half a day in court, followed by four hours of witness interviews for one of the gang-related deaths. He had talked to John for about two minutes on the phone, telling him he had some more questions before he made his decision. Swiping the card down over the sensor, Evan thought again about how hip deep in this he already was. There was only one other car in the lot when he pulled in. He met Todd as the man was heading out. "Busy juggling jobs?" the ex-Marine asked.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 120

"Oh, yeah. I think I need more hours in my day so I get a chance to sleep now and then." Evan

laughed.

"Things were kinda slow today. I don't know if that's good or just an aftereffect of ... well...

everything."

"Sometimes it's hard to tell."

"Anyway, get John to give you the five-minute rundown. I gotta go."

Evan watched for a moment as Todd left, before going up the stairs.

In the workroom, Evan could see the door of John's office hanging open and John was slouched

in the desk chair, keyboard in his lap. Evan gently rapped two knuckles on the door frame. John looked up, then smiled a little. "So, looking for more info on our 401K before you make a decision?" John asked.

Evan snorted a laugh. "I think that might qualify as one of the last things to figure into my

decision. And, no offense, dude, but you look worse than you did yesterday."

John pressed his lips together and stared down at his keyboard for a moment. "I guess you could

blame it on half a bottle of Jameson's."

"Uh, yeah, I guess that'd about do it," commented Evan.

"You eat yet?"

"Not unless you want to count the crap out of the vending machine at the courthouse."

"There's a halfway decent Chinese place a few blocks away. I was contemplating ordering some

stuff for delivery. My concentration's shot, anyway," said John, waving his hand in general

direction of the computer.

"That would work," replied Evan.

"Go look on the fridge in the kitchen. I think Fiona stuck a menu from them out there."

Evan nodded and walked back out into the workroom. John trailed a number of steps behind him.

John dialed his cell and told the restaurant what he wanted, then handed the phone to Evan so

Evan could order. John poured himself a cup of coffee and then settled in the upholstered chair near the kitchen, feet stretched out in front of him, arms crossed. Evan sat on the sofa facing him. "Okay, fire away with the questions," John said.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 121

"What if I can't hack it?" Evan said bluntly. John just stared at him. "I think... you've already passed that test." "But what about long term? Here's one of my worries. I don't want to get three months into this and decide the stress is eating me alive and have no job to go back to. With the DCPD, I mean." "You want to do this on a consultant basis?" John gave him a somewhat dubious look. "No, no, that's not exactly what I meant. But, I think it might be worth having me take an official leave of absence from them, in case, well, whatever," Evan said uncertainly. John blew out a long breath and rubbed his hands back through his hair. "Okay, if that's what you want. I'm... flexible." Their eyes met in a long, appraising moment. "There's that, too," said Evan slowly. "The... you and me thing. How's that going to go if I work for you?" "I'd love to say work is work and personal time is separate, but it's not. Not around here, at any rate. If you want to... let the past few weeks just flow under the bridge, I'll abide by that," John said. Evan noticed the tight expression on John's face. Neither one of them was exactly sure where the attraction that lay between them was likely to go. Evan lowered his shielding a little and felt a hint of bitter hurt and longing from the man in front of him, and he had the intense desire to comfort John. The question had not been meant to be a blanket rejection. It was quite literally a question. Evan stood up and stepped around the coffee table, then sat on it directly in front of John. He took John's hand in his own and rubbed his thumb across the other man's knuckles. "Work doesn't always mix easily with relationships," Evan said. "If we decide you and me isn't going anywhere, is that going to make doing our jobs too freaking difficult?" "I wish I could say I had an easy answer, but you have a point. Maybe the leave of absence thing is a good idea." The sound of a buzzer disrupted the quiet conversation, and John got up to meet the delivery driver. *** They sat on the floor beside the coffee table to eat. Evan had grabbed a soda from the refrigerator. John's coffee cup was still half-full, so he hadn't bothered to get anything else. "I think you qualify as a caffeine-based life form," said Evan. "You must drink at least a pot a day." He gestured toward the cup in John's hand.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 122

John grinned a little. "Bad habit. Caffeine -- next best thing to actually sleeping," he quipped. "Nightmares?" Evan asked. John was silent for a long time, reluctant to address the issue. "Yeah." "Wanna talk about it?" "The nightmares or getting to witness my meltdown?" John asked, thinking back to several days ago. "Either or both." "Not really," John confessed, then he looked down. Evan's hand was resting on top of John’s. It was a comfortable warmth. Evan gently used a finger of his free hand to tip John's face back up. The moment hovered between them, and then Evan leaned in and kissed him. It began as a tentative brush of lips. John's breath hitched and his arm slipped up to wrap around Evan's body, pulling Evan in tighter. Evan pushed forward, toppling John slowly back onto the floor. Sprawled on top, Evan deepened the kiss, parting John’s partner's teeth with his tongue. Lips sucking, tongues exploring, John's hand groped Evan's butt, pulling their bodies tighter together. There was heat. Fuck, no! Make that fire! His mouth was burning! John pushed Evan off, spluttering, scrambling to sit up, Evan sliding sideways onto the floor. John made a wild grab for his coffee cup and gulped down most of the contents and viciously wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve. "Christ, Evan! What the hell did you order!? Napalm?" yelled John. "I'd love to say you set me on fire with your kiss, 'cept I think you about melted the inside of my mouth!" Evan was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. When he finally caught his breath, he answered. "Hunan beef. Guess you don't have my tolerance for hot and spicy." "Jesus! Maybe we could package that stuff to use on the next demon!" "Mmm, guess you should be glad it was just your mouth and not something lower." Evan snickered. John felt his face flush with embarrassment at the thought, but it was also an awfully funny idea. "Oh, shit... I don't even want to think about that," John said, laughing also. "Could make taking a shower a really necessary event." They were interrupted by the sound of Evan's cell phone. Evan managed to regain control enough to answer without giggling. "Garrett... Yeah... Oh crap... In Crystal City having dinner, first actual meal I've had today... SIS stuff... Yeah, yeah, I'll be there in twenty minutes or so." He sighed and hung up. "This gang

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 123

stuff is just spiraling out of control. These assholes seem to be into the tit for tat thing. There's been another shooting. I gotta go," he apologized. "Shit happens," John said. Evan slowly climbed to his feet. "I don't have court tomorrow. I swear, if this doesn't take the whole night, I'll come by in the morning and get caught up on this case." "Should I lean on your captain a little?" "No. If I'm going to request a leave of absence, it'll sit better if I can put in some time for them over the next couple days." "Is that a yes on the offer?" "Let's just say I'm leaning in that direction. I told you I'd let you know on Wednesday." "Okay, I'll stop pushing," said John as he got up. "I'd offer to kiss you goodbye, but..." Evan grinned and John made a "cross" symbol with his two index fingers. They both laughed and Evan headed for the stairwell. *** The investigation of the latest gang death kept Evan up until three a.m. He practically crawled off to bed when he finally got home. The investigation continued the following day at an only slightly less frenzied pace. Wednesday was its own set of frustrations and ended in a mass of minor fuck-ups. *** Wednesday, December 13, 2006 -- 10 p.m. The ER was a fairly quiet place on a Wednesday night. The cubicle curtain was pulled most of the way shut. Evan picked up his shirt from the exam table and glanced down at the nurse's hands as they applied a bandage over the four sutures holding the gash along his ribs shut. He looked at his watch. Four minutes after ten p.m. Well, shit. This day just kept getting better and better. He was supposed to be letting Benchley know what his decision regarding the job offer was by today, and there were technically only two hours left. The guy was probably thinking he had changed his mind. Kyle Matheson stuck his head into the cubicle and waved a heavily bandaged hand in Evan's general direction. "Hey, Garrett, they done with your embroidery yet?" the black cop asked. "Seven stitches in mine."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 124

"Only four. You got me beat." Evan gave him a rueful smile. Both of them had ended up sliced after they had been drawn into a foot pursuit of coked-out gang member who had just stabbed another. It had taken both of them to tackle the junkie and hold him down long enough to disarm and zip-tie him. Neither of them had escaped the flailing blade the guy had wielded. "Blade-boy's in holding. His vic's still in surgery. Just another night in the Knife and Gun Club. You need a lift home?" Kyle asked. "No... actually to the Metro station. I have to go somewhere else." "At ten at night?" "Yeah." Evan debated for a moment on whether John would even be awake, and somehow he was pretty sure the guy would be. "Okay, dude. It's your lack of sleep," said Kyle. *** The Metro was moderately deserted at ten-thirty p.m. Evan Garrett walked away from the station in the direction of the SIS building. It took about fifteen minutes. The soon-to-be-ex detective fished the magnetic key card out of his wallet and swiped it against the sensor. The door made a buzz and released. He walked through into the garage area. The lights were on and the tailgate of one of the H2's hung open. The entire contents of the cargo area were piled on the floor in heaps behind it, with John Benchley leaning into the open back end. John straightened up at the sound of the exterior door closing. "I wasn't expecting you this late," John said. "A phone call would have worked." There was a resigned note in his tone. "I know. But... somehow I thought in person would be better. I'll... take you up on your offer." John looked unexpectedly relieved, and his smile reached his eyes. "Gotta give my two weeks, though. Actually, I promised the captain I'd be available if necessary 'til New Year's," continued Evan. "Understandable. What did he say about the leave of absence thing?" "I have six months to reach a permanent decision." "Um, okay, good," replied John. "So, you spring cleaning or what?" Evan gestured to the piles on the floor.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 125

"No, no. We had a hook that we use to bungee cord the portable arc light to. It broke. I put in a new one, but it's at such a weird angle I had to take everything out to really get to it." "Need a hand putting it all back in?" asked Evan. "Yeah, actually, that would be great." John heaved a metal crate of gear up off the floor and shoved it in. Evan shrugged out of his jacket and, dropping it on the floor, twisted to pick up a case of water bottles. "Fuck! You're bleeding!" shouted John, grabbing him by the shoulders. Evan glanced down at the blood that had dried into a stiffening stain all along the side of his shirt. He knew there was reason he probably should have gone home first. "Was bleeding. It only needed a couple stitches," he said. "What the hell happened?" John demanded. "A gang member stabbed some buddy of his. Kyle and I somehow ended up in a foot pursuit after the guy while the uniforms dealt with his victim. We caught him, but he was stoned out of his mind on meth or coke or something. He flailed around like an octopus on speed before we got the knife off him. I got cut and so did Kyle," Evan explained. John's hand ghosted down over the stained fabric of Evan's shirt before returning to Evan’s shoulder. John's jaw was clenched and his expression serious. "How bad?" John asked softly. "Only four stitches. I probably wouldn't have needed them at all except the cut is right across a rib, and every time I twisted, it reopened and started bleeding again." "I'm... glad it's not too bad. Really, you could have just called." "I know, I know. I had already decided I would take the job, but I have to admit it made me think about the fact a common knife can make you just as dead as a demon. Staying with the DCPD wouldn't make my life any safer." John was gazing at him, hands still holding onto his shoulders. He could feel a faint hint of guilt and worry seeping through the edges of John's shielding, and there was also desire. John's hands slid upward to cup along either side of Evan's face and he leaned in, almost hesitantly. The kiss was soft. Lips against lips. Evan's fingers wrapped around the back of his partner's head, fisting carefully in John’s hair. John's own arms slid around Evan's body, drawing him closer. The kiss took on hungry proportions. A battle of tongues and teeth that left them both breathing heavily. John leaned his hips against Evan's, pinning him to the side of the Hummer. Faces pressed together, psychic shielding faltering, Evan could feel the heavy wash of need. Some of it was John's, but some of it was his own. "Tell me to stop," John whispered huskily in his ear.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 126

"Don't stop. Definitely don't stop," was his reply. They ground against each other, aroused. Evan grazed his teeth along John's neck, little nips heading toward the hollow of his throat. Evan's fingers unfastened the top button of John's shirt, the tip of his tongue licking across the shallow depression. John groaned, drop his hands to the front of Evan's slacks. John wrestled with the belt buckle and yanked it open. Evan expected to feel hands sliding down into his own pants, but the hands slid up under his shirt, caressing the muscles across his back, tracing along his spine, and touching lightly on the bandage along his ribs. It seemed John was drowning himself in the sensation of his hands against Evan's skin. Evan pressed his thigh between John's, rubbing the achingly hard front of his groin against John's hip. "Got... a condom in my wallet," Evan mumbled, his mouth seeking John's again. "You topping?" "If you want..." "Oh, yeah, I want," begged John. The tailgate was still hanging open, only some of the gear stowed. John's hand was groping in the back of the Hum-vee for the metal box. He pulled out a bottle of ultrasound gel. Evan raised an eyebrow. "That's kinky," said Evan. "You object?" "Didn't say that." Evan unzipped John's fly and eased his jeans down over his hips, palm stroking lightly across his erection. *** "Oh God, don't... not yet," John huffed. He wanted this badly. John scrunched his pants down past his knees and realized he still had his sneakers on. He ended up wrestling them off and kicking free of his jeans while hanging one-handed onto the open tailgate. Evan pressed him forward, bent against the tailgate, gel-slicked fingers exploring. John's breath was ragged, and he squirmed in exquisite pleasure at the sensation... and then it was gone. He could hear the crinkle of the package being torn open and the splattery sound of gel being squeezed out. John groped behind him. Evan's thighs were pressing against the back of his own, and he felt the slight burning pressure as Evan pressed into him. He squirmed more, pushing back, until their bodies met. His breath came out in a moan as Evan drew back and thrust into him. They were both too far gone for this to last very long.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 127

Evan's long, narrow fingers wrapped around his painfully hard erection, stroking him in time with their rhythm. John could feel his climax coming, the delicious tension. His hand clenched around Evan's wrist, where Evan was braced against the edge of the Hummer. Oh God. Having that spot hit one too many times, John came in a messy surge all over the edge of the tailgate and Evan's hand. Evan followed him seconds later. John could feel Evan basking in the sensations of the body clenched around his own. John hung unsteadily onto the tailgate, Evan's arms around him, feeling Evan's face against his shoulder blades, both struggling to catch their breath. "Think we made a mess," gasped John, gesturing to the tailgate. This made Evan snicker. Evan slowly, reluctantly, took a step back, fingers trailing down the muscles of John's back. John retrieved his jeans, hauled them back on, and drew Evan back into a kiss. "Come on upstairs. I've got beer in the fridge," said John. "Isn't the having a drink part usually supposed to come first?" Evan snarked. "Yeah, maybe. Guess we got carried away." John grinned. "Ya know, unless you want someone else to wonder why there's, well... dried sticky stuff on edge of the tailgate in the morning..." suggested Evan. "Oh, shit, yeah, good idea." John went into the lab and grabbed a handful of paper towels and wet them in the sink. In John's apartment, they slouched on the long sofa, beer in hand. "So, wanna tell me why there's ultrasound gel in the back of the truck? Not that it didn't get put to good use," said Evan. John grinned. "Blame Fiona. We were at a scene and she found a knife that had fallen inside a drainage pipe, a really narrow one. She's got little hands, and she figured she could get it. So she stuck her hand in there and got stuck. Really stuck. Cecelia had just gotten a case of the gel from a medical supplier. She likes to use it during autopsy sometimes, as a precursor to the slicing and dicing. Kind of a preview thing. Anyway, we ended up using a bottle of it to get Fiona's hand free. So somehow it became part of our standard kit. Which reminds me, I think we left it on the floor down there, along with my sneakers." "We'll grab it later." Conversation turned to the case details, then drifted toward the demon incident. Somehow, John ended up stretched out on the sofa, head in Evan's lap, the same position they'd been in the night Evan helped him piece his shielding back together. Evan's fingers stroking his hair, feeling a rare moment of peace, John's eyes fell closed.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 128

And John woke screaming, just like nearly every other night since Stuart's death. Strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him tight against a chest, holding him while his heart pounded and his breath hurt. "Easy, you're safe. I've got you," Evan murmured in his ear, still holding him tightly. John sagged, burying his face in Evan's stomach, muscles twitching. A hand stroked his back. "Just breathe." "Ohgodpleasedon'tleaveme," John begged, his face pressed against fabric, one arm wrapped around Evan. "I won't. Shh. It's okay," were the soft words of comfort from Evan. Lips pressed to his temple, his cheek, his mouth. Unnerved by the terrifying nightmare and the tender comfort he wasn't used to, John's psi shielding slipped to near nothing. Affection, worry, and care seeped through to him, beginning to calm him, ground him. He curled tightly against Evan, knees jammed into the back of the sofa, half his body across Evan's lap. Head cradled against his lover's chest. Just breathing. Reveling in not being alone. Trying to regain some sort of composure. Only when he finally realized he was cutting off the circulation to one hand did he move. "Sorry, I must be half squashing you," John whispered, struggling to sit up. "It's okay. You know, I know for a fact you do actually have a bed, big enough for both of us. And I bet we'd be a lot more comfortable," said Evan. John smiled weakly and got up. In the bedroom, John sat on the edge of the bed to pull off his socks. "Christ, I swear what little sleep I get lately seems to be fully clothed and not in a bed," he muttered. John shucked his jeans and unbuttoned his shirt, tossing them unceremoniously on the floor. Evan did pretty much the same. John flopped back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Evan sat cross-legged on the bed beside him. "You sleep with the lights on?" Evan said. "Actually, I usually don't go back to sleep at all. I... Since I'm usually by myself, I just usually just take a shower and make coffee and go try to get some paperwork done. Anything to get it out of my head." "You only slept maybe two hours. I'm tired. You have to be exhausted. I'm going to turn out the light, get in bed with you, and maybe we can both get some sleep. It's one a.m., and barring any disasters, we could maybe get six or seven hours of sleep," said Evan "I'm on call..." John protested, just a little.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 129

"Like I said, barring disasters..." Evan got up and switched off the light. *** Evan crawled under the blankets beside John and snuggled up against him. John's body was all raw tension beside Evan. In the dim light from the street lights that filtered through the curtains, he could see John staring vacantly at the ceiling in the near darkness. Evan laid a hand on John's chest. "Sleeping is supposed to involve closing your eyes." "Sorry. Listen, you get some sleep. I'm going to go down to the office." John started to get up. Evan restrained him, laying a leg over top of him, arm around his waist. "No. You. Me. Bed. Sleep." "I can't." "Okay, forget the sleep part, then." He rubbed the inside of his thigh across John's crotch. John's body jerked at the friction. Only the thin layer of his briefs separated their skin. "Got any more condoms?" whispered Evan. His hand wandered down John's smooth chest, tracing the fine, soft dusting of body hair. Evan slid his leg down a bit, cupping his hand over the hint of arousal that lay beneath John's underwear. "Uh-huh... Bottom drawer of the nightstand..." "More ultrasound gel?" Evan teased. "Uh, no... normal stuff." John's voice was a strangled whisper. Evan's hand stroked him and he bucked against the gentle pressure. Evan pulled John over on top, fisting a hand in John's hair, sucking on his lips, parting teeth with his tongue. John ground into Evan, holding him tight, pressing him into the mattress with his heavier body mass. John groped for the drawer handle, pulling things out, then he shimmied out of his underwear. "Am I driving or you?" John mumbled, mouth pressed to Evan's shoulder. "Your turn." It was a lot slower than in the garage. Hands wandered and fingers explored. Tongues and teeth and lips. John's mouth wandered down the flat plane of Evan's belly to his groin. Evan gasped in a sharp breath as a warm mouth engulfed him, tongue tracing along the tip of his hard cock. John sucked and teased while his fingers pressed in further back, drawing Evan closer and closer to release. Then he stopped and flexed Evan's legs before pushing in. John's thrusts were slow and steady. Evan could sense he was enraptured by the echoes of pleasure cascading through his partner's body. Little zings through his nervous system, sparking out though his body, ending in

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 130

his fingertips. John's shielding had dropped to almost nonexistent. The two of them had already shared a blending of their minds after the whole drug exposure experience. Having their bodies equally involved this time was amazing. Evan squirmed beneath him, panting, teeth nipping softly at John's throat. The intensity was skidding toward the peak. Breathing hard against Evan's neck, his fingers digging into Evan's shoulders, John groaned and his body convulsed, riding the bliss. Evan followed him over the edge. Spent, they lay limply in each other's arms, sweat and semen sticking them to each other. John managed to grab his shirt from the floor and mopped them up enough that maybe they wouldn't stick to the sheets too badly. The condom got pitched in the general direction of the trash can. In the darkness, it was uncertain if the condom made it. Drowsy, and curled against Evan's body, John drifted to sleep. Evan lay awake for a few more minutes. This was so insanely different, Evan thought, so different from Renee. The fact that the lover who lay nestled against him was male was irrelevant. The sex had been amazing, but even that was inconsequential. Evan cared. He genuinely cared about John. This man who was so close to broken, John was struggling so hard to keep his sanity amidst the chaos and the grief. Evan sighed and stroked a hand gently down his partner's spine and let himself fall asleep, too. *** Thursday, December 14, 2006 Gray pre-dawn light was filtering through the curtains. Evan pried his eyes open and rubbed his cheek against the head of dark hair pressed to his shoulder. John was wound around him, both arms, both legs, like a child clutching an oversized teddy bear. There had been no more nightmares. Evan squinted in the direction of the clock on the dresser. Six forty-three. He probably ought to bail before he was likely to run into any of the other members of SIS. That would cause some really awkward questions. Evan ran his fingers through John's hair and down the side of John’s face. There was a soft sound of sleepy protest from him. "Hey, sleepy-head. Wake up for a second, I gotta go," Evan whispered. John's arms tightened around him. "More s'eep," he mumbled. Evan smiled and carefully pulled himself loose. "Fine, you can go back to sleep in a couple minutes. I have to go deal with department stuff for at least a couple hours this morning. Do you want me around when you tell the rest of them I'm the new hire?" John sat up slowly and ran a hand through his hair. Evan smirked. It reminded him of some anime character, the way it stood out at spiky angles.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 131

"You don't have to be here when I tell them, but it probably would be a good idea to come by in the afternoon. We all need to discuss what direction we're trying to head in next," said John, looking like he was making an unsuccessful attempt to be truly awake. Evan fished his underwear and slacks off the floor and started to pull them on. "Hey, um... don't take this the wrong way, but I've never had a partner who wasn't 'cut,'" said John. He made a vague gesture at Evan's lack of circumcision. Evan gave him an appraising look. "Problem?" "No, not at all. I think it's... really hot. You and I aren't but a couple years different in age. I just wondered, well... why?" "Pagan parents. Plus, my mom's a midwife. They don't subscribe to the whole 'every boy ought to have it done' crap put out by popular American culture. And anyway, I was born at home. No handy doctors to press the issue." He grinned a little. "Um... wow," said John. Evan pulled his pants on the rest of the way and then crawled across the bed. Evan pushed John back so he lay flat again and sprawled on top, kissing him. "I suppose I'm surprised you didn't bring it up last night when you had it in your mouth," Evan said. John blushed a little and Evan laughed. "You stay where you are much longer and you might convince me to do it again." John's voice was a low, husky whisper as he wrapped both arms around Evan's body. "Much as I would like that, having the rest of the team find me in your bed might prove highly embarrassing." "Mmm, yeah," agreed John, clearly reluctantly, and let go. He watched in silence as Evan finished dressing. As Evan headed for the door, he called after him. "Hey, Evan, about the nightmare... thanks for being here." Evan stood looking at him for a moment. "You're welcome. Anytime you need me, ask." *** None of the SIS team were particularly surprised when John announced that Evan would be joining the team. Evan did make it back to the SIS building by mid-afternoon and Fiona presented him with a stack of paperwork. It held everything from W-2s and I-9s to four separate next-of-kin and medical release for emergency treatment forms. Fiona was also in charge of setting up his computer account and other security access issues. The set-up procedure ended at what used to be Stuart's desk. John made a hand motion toward the big metal piece of furniture.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 132

"I... cleaned everything out and gave all his personal stuff to Vanessa. Beyond some ink pens tossed in the drawer, it's empty. There's the normal sort of office supplies in the cabinet over there." John turned and sat on the edge of the desk, arms crossed. "You're... you're not a replacement. You're just filling his job. Okay, that didn't come out right." He ran his fingers back through his hair in frustration. Evan caught his hand. "It's okay. I know what you mean. I wouldn't presume to take his place. I know you miss him." John looked at the slender fingers wrapped around his hand and then back at Evan. There was a fleeting hint of longing on John's face. Evan slowly let go. "Much as I hate to say it, we're attempting to get on with our jobs," said Todd from across the room. *** Thursday, December 14 -- Dec 20, 2006 Evan managed to make it by SIS every couple of days while winding down his time with the police department. Fiona finished his security clearance for SIS. Todd put him through a small arms refresher as well as a brief seminar in bomb defusing. Why, Evan wasn't sure. In between times, he waded through a stack of reports from the past year. Holy shit, what a year. *** Wednesday Dec 20, 2006 -- 5 p.m. The whole of SIS, including the new addition, Evan, had been picking at details for an entire week. It was like trying to unravel an oriental carpet by untying a single knot at a time; excruciatingly, painfully slow. John had been dividing his time between administrative chores and the endless legwork of trying to track someone, anyone, who might have a lead. Now, at the end of the day, he was back in the building. The rest of the team flowed in and out of the workroom, generating a background murmur of discussion. He retrieved a folder from a file cabinet and returned to his office. Paperwork awaited, the neverending heap that fueled bureaucracy. He sat down in front of the computer. At some point, John noticed the absence of talking in the outer room. It was time for more coffee. The sun had nearly set, and long shadows were gracing the not quite empty room. Evan was sitting at his desk, feet propped on the corner, file folder in his lap.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 133

"When I suggested you might want to look through a few back files, that wasn't supposed to translate to reading everything that hasn't gone off to the archive," said John. Evan looked up at him with a slight grin. "How else am I going to get a handle on what SIS does?" "I think you get to consider the face off with the demon as your initiation. Want some coffee?" "Yeah, sure," replied Evan. *** Sliding his feet off the desk, Evan stood up and walked toward the kitchen. John handed him a cup. Evan regarded John for a long moment. John still had deep circles under his eyes and that "trying to hold it together" brittle edge to his movements. "No more avoidance. Tell me about the nightmares," prompted Evan, uncertain if he would actually get an honest answer. John was silent for more than a minute before he spoke. "It's mostly just memory. Chasing it, watching what it did to Stuart. Seeing it turn toward me. Only, in the dream, it actually starts ripping me apart." His description was toneless, but Evan stood watching his body language. The tremor in his hands, leaning forward in that instinctive "protect the vital organs" crouch, fingers clenching and unclenching. John must have realized he was doing it, because he picked up his own cup and wrapped both hands tightly around it. Evan let his shielding fall open a bit and felt the wash of emotions from the man in front of him. Grief, pain, anger, and loneliness, all bled around the edges of John's shields. He stretched out a hand and cupped it against John's face. "There is nothing else you could have done. You survived. I know there is nothing I can say to take away the guilt, but at some point you're actually going to have to make peace with yourself." John made no verbal response. He turned away and went to look out the window, standing for a long time in silence. "Every time someone close to me dies, I feel like a little piece of me dies, too," John said softly. "Have there been a lot?" "Too many... Way too many." ***

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 134

Thursday, December 21, 2006 - 1 p.m. Evan leaned his back on the door frame of John's office, half watching Cecelia and Fiona across the room who were eyeballing something on Fiona's computer. "John, if nothing epic and life threatening shows up, I need to be unavailable for the evening. That okay with you?" John glanced up from the keyboard for an instant. "Uh, yeah, fine. Any particular reason?"

"Religious stuff. With my sister's family," said Evan.

"Oh."

"So, what kind of magnificent things are you doing for Christmas?" Evan asked.

John's fingers hesitated on the keyboard. "Just personal stuff."

"Does that mean nothing?"

"No. I have stuff to do. I have commitments," John said softly. Out in the workroom, Evan could

see Cecelia making frantic gesture of "shh" and doing the "zip your lips" pantomime.

"Doesn't sound like fun," commented Evan. John shrugged in silence, pointedly ignoring Evan.

Evan gave up and walked toward Cecelia.

"Okay, what's with the mime routine?" Evan asked. She grabbed him by the front of his shirt and

dragged him into the stairwell.

"Sit," she ordered. Evan gave her a dubious look and sat on a step. "Do NOT hassle him about

that. He has this thing he does. Call it atonement or call it just plain grief. But it's a ritual for him.

Every year he picks someone he cared about who died and goes to their

grave."

"On Christmas?"

"Yeah, on Christmas. I saw him making a hotel reservation in Boston. So, apparently, this year,

it's Doug. Doug was his partner when he was DEA. Doug died when a car bomb went off on K

Street. John nearly died, too," explained Cecelia.

"How many are there?"

"Too many."

"That's just fucking bleak!" said Evan.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 135

"I know. I know. But he's been doing it for as long as I've known him. I think this year, it's anybody but Stuart. It's too recent and too raw. I wish... I wish that I could say it brought him some sort of closure or peace. But really, I just don't know." *** Friday, December 22, 2006 -- 4:00 p.m. As the day was winding down, John called the team into the workroom. People were pulling on

coats and gathering belongings.

"Tonight, unless you really want to drive by yourself, we'll meet back here at seven-thirty. I want

you to put in at least an hour of face time. Believe me, I'd rather not go, either, but since I have to

go, I intend to spread the misery around." John shoved his hands in his pockets and made a face.

"Um, what exactly are you talking about?" asked Evan, totally clueless.

"The Homeland Security multi-agency holiday party. Otherwise known as two to four hours of

meaningless chit-chat and schmoozing over large quantities of alcohol," snarked Fiona.

"Mandatory fun. Kind of like having a root canal," said Todd.

"Do I need to rent a tux? 'Cause I'm not sure I have time, if I do," asked Evan.

"No, no, it's just a suit and tie sort of thing," said Rich. "However, I'm gonna pass on the meeting

you here first. Trish will inevitably take two hours to get dressed and all, so we'll meet you

there."

"Was I supposed to get a date?" Evan pressed, looking a little stressed.

"No, not at all. Most of the unmarried people I know just go solo. Makes it easier to escape as

soon as possible," interjected Fiona.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 136

Chapter 19

Staging

Friday, December 22, 2006 -- 8:00 p.m.

The ballroom of the Hyatt Regency was festooned with red and green streamers. More than three hundred people stood in clusters, drinks in hand, socializing. Dress seemed to range from conservative business suits for most of the men to sequins and satin on the part of the women. John suggested to Evan that a drink would probably be a good idea, while he himself headed in the direction of an acquaintance. Carl Henderson, one of the deputy directors of the FBI, was deep in conversation with another man as John approached. "I can't see how banning all electronics on commercial flights would be remotely viable. Hey, Benchley," said Henderson. "Henderson. So, how goes your end of the FBI?" asked John. "Oh, fair to middling. I heard by way of the grapevine that you guys are up to your necks in something nasty." "Yeah... you could say that." "I'm sorry to hear about Stuart. He was a good man," said Henderson. "Thanks." John found himself fingering the barely healed skin on his palm. A hand touched his shoulder and he turned to look, only to find himself being kissed full on the mouth as a pair of arms wound around his neck. He yanked his face back far enough to see Madison Carthage, head of the Philadelphia FBI office. He pried her arms from around his neck. "Madison. I wasn't expecting to see you tonight," John managed, keeping a firm hold on her arms. "I was down here on business and thought I'd drop by the party and see a few old friends," she said, giving him a sultry look from under her eyelashes. She was a stunning blonde with a wellendowed figure, wearing a black velvet, spaghetti-strap cocktail gown. John gritted his teeth and smiled at her. "It's been a while since I last saw you," he said, visions of the bedroom in her Philly apartment and her legs wrapped around his naked body flitting through his memory. She licked her lips and grabbed his tie, pulling him toward her. "I think you should get me a drink," she purred. Carl Henderson gave him a look of envy. It was obvious that Madison had already had more than enough to drink. John managed to remove her fingers from his tie.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 137

"Sure, why not?" John said. Maybe a few minutes of playing nice until she saw someone else to distract her would work. They stood at the bar, waiting on drinks. John saw Evan nod at him from several feet away and raise his eyebrows in query. He crooked a finger at Evan, beckoning Evan over. "Madison, this is Evan Garrett, the newest addition to SIS. Evan, Madison Carthage, head of the FBI's Philadelphia office." She offered a hand and smiled at Evan, eyes raking down the other man's body as they shook hands. "Nice to meet you. So where did he steal you away from? NSA?" she asked. "No, actually the DCPD." "Oh, a local boy," she said somewhat dismissively. "John and I met last year on a case. You know, John, you really should come to Philly again. Sometime when things are not so hectic. We could... spend some time together." John felt his face flush slightly. "Things are pretty frantic here at the moment. I'll have to take a rain check," John replied. He took the glass proffered by the bartender and handed it to her, then picked up the beer he'd ordered. "Listen, there's some people I really need to say hello to. Nice to see you again." With that, he practically bolted in the opposite direction, leaving Madison with a frustrated look on her face. Fiona was laughing with some old friends from the NSA. Rich and his wife Trish were mixed in with the group, listening to one of the men tell a tale of accidentally locking himself in the stairwell at work after hours. Fiona waved a hand at John as he walked by, and he stopped. "Hey, did you see Taylor Vanderbilt was here?" she asked. "I'm surprised he condescended to show his face among all us peons." "No, I didn't see him," John replied. He sat down in a chair and set his empty bottle on a table. "Ms. Carthage, I thought you were up in Philadelphia," commented Fiona, gazing at someone behind him. John looked over his shoulder just in time to see Madison as she sat in his lap. She draped an arm around his shoulders. "Nope, business brought me to DC," she said. John gave Fiona a pleading look, and Fiona just grinned at his discomfort. He thrust the woman up off his legs while struggling to his feet, trying not to actually dump her onto the floor. Madison glared at him.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 138

"Fiona, dance with me," he said, and pulled her in the direction of the dance floor. One arm

around Fiona's waist and her hand in his, John gracefully led her in time to the music.

"Trying to escape past indiscretions?" Fiona giggled.

"Oh, lord, is there anyone who doesn't know about that?" John groaned.

"Considering the fact you were practically crawling all over her that week, I think turn about is

fair play."

"Hey, at least I was sober. Stupid, but sober. Can I escape now?" he pleaded.

"You're the boss. You set the rules." He twisted his wrist to look at his watch. He had put in three

hours of face time, and he wasn't sure he could stand any more.

As the music ended, Madison was on the attack again. She wrapped an arm around John's waist.

"Do I get the next dance?" she asked, her words just beginning to slur a bit.

"Madison... I really need to go," he replied. He tried to ease himself out of her hold.

"Hey, so where's your buddy Stuart? Haven't seen him all night," she said.

John froze. He had fielded a number of condolences during the night already, each one a little

harder than the last. He stepped back suddenly and Madison lurched unsteadily, grabbing hold of

his jacket sleeve.

"He's dead," said John. "Killed in the line of duty. Killed ten feet in front of me, and there was

nothing I could do!" As his volume rose, heads turned to look at him. He spun sharply on his

heel and strode off toward one of the exits.

Outside the building on a patio, a dozen smokers socialized over nicotine. John sat on the edge of a concrete planter, arms crossed, both furious and hurting. His mind was filled with the image of the photo in his office. Same stupid party, two years ago. First Sean's death, then Stuart's. With an eerie, morbid curiosity, John wondered if he would still be alive this time next year. He flinched as something brushed his sleeve, and for a moment he thought that Madison had followed him. It was Fiona. She gave him a sympathetic smile as she sat down beside him. "She's hammered, and can be pretty damn close to an absolute bitch even when she's not," commented Fiona. "Uh-huh," he replied, and they sat in silence for several minutes.

"Tell her to fuck off. There's no rule that says you have to play nice when it's not business."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 139

"Uh-huh, and I can just see that coming back to bite me in the ass worse than the night I spent with her." "Then just plain leave," she said. He stared down at the sidewalk beneath his feet in silence. "On the other hand, you could really yank her chain." He raised an eyebrow and looked at her. "What did you have in mind?" he asked slowly. Fiona just grinned. "Give me your coat." "Okay." He shrugged out of it and draped it around her shoulders. "Why?" "Cause I'm freezing my ass off out here with you, for starters!" she teased, making him laugh. She pulled his tie loose and undid a couple buttons on his shirt. Then she leaned forward, dipping her head below her knees and digging her fingers into the strands of her French-braided hair so that it was decidedly less than pristine when she straightened up. "Hold still, and don't get wigged out." Her head tilted sideways, and he felt her face against his open collar. "Now you've got my lipstick all over your collar. If we walk back inside, with your arm around me, the obvious first impression will be that we've been... making out somewhere." This brought another soft laugh out of him. "You can 'fess up to the team later, if you're so inspired." "Fi, you are one twisted soul." "Nah, just inventive." She stood up and held out her hand to him. He smiled and took her hand in his. As they went back inside, John slid his arm around her. They wove their way slowly through the crowd at the edge of the room. At some point, Madison Carthage started to head directly toward them. Then she stopped, a look of jealous fury on her face, and stalked back in the other direction. "Bingo. Mission accomplished," Fiona said, with a look of glee. She turned to face him. "Quick, go grab a cab and bail before she changes her mind and decides to try again." "What about you?" asked John. "Me? I have plans of my own." She gave him a saucy smile and made a gesture toward the group of NSA people. "Thanks." He headed swiftly for the far door. He stopped briefly to retrieve his heavy jacket from the coat check and strode in the direction of the lobby. A voice calling his name stopped him.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 140

"Hey, boss, you gonna leave me here with all these Feds?" He looked back to see Evan coming toward him. John relaxed. "I believe I made you a Fed now, too."

"Guess it's going to take me awhile to get used to that idea. Where are you going in such a

hurry?"

"Escaping," said John

"From Ms. Carthage?"

"Yeah, you could say that... Other stuff, too."

"Need a lift?" asked Evan.

"I was just going to catch a cab. I figured you would hang around and give Todd a lift

home, since we came together."

"Todd bailed about an hour ago. He said he'd run into an old Marine buddy and they were going

out to have a drink and catch up. So truthfully, I'm ready to get away from here."

"If you don't mind..." John said.

They walked across the chilly parking lot and climbed into Evan's Prius.

"So was the tie and the lipstick a casualty of Madison?" asked Evan as he pulled out of the

parking lot.

"No actually it's was Fiona," said John and proceeded to tell of Fiona's deception plan. Evan was

seriously amused by the whole thing.

"You know, maybe Todd had a good idea, want to go grab a drink somewhere?"

"I have a couple bottles of wine in my fridge..." Evan said.

"That sounds like an invitation," John answered slowly.

"If you want it to be."

"Yeah, I'd like that."

In Evan's apartment, John draped his coat over the arm of a chair as Evan went into the kitchen.

Evan’s place looked lived in. There were photos, magazines, a cluttered desk, and art on the walls. John drifted toward a set of bookshelves to look at a photo. John picked it up. Evan was distinctly younger, probably a teenager. He was sprawled in a pile of hay along with four girls.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 141

Three were of similar ages, and one was a decade younger. They all bore a decided resemblance

to each other.

"Me and my sisters," said Evan from behind him. "Danielle is the oldest, then Phoebe, Brigid's

my twin, and Sarah's the baby of the family. Do you have siblings?"

"No. I'm an only."

"Do you see your parents much?" asked Evan.

"They're dead... I have a couple of cousins. No other family."

"Oh."

*** Evan mentally kicked himself. He hadn't intended to raise a topic of discomfort to John. He let his shielding diminish and could feel the painful edge of longing from the man in front of him.

John set the frame carefully back on the shelf. Evan handed him a glass of red wine.

"Maybe I should have asked you if you wanted red or white," said Evan gently.

"As long as it didn't come out of a box, I'm not too picky."

"I don't do cardboard wine," Evan grimaced. He settled on the sofa while John continued to

wander along the shelves, looking at books and pictures and a small assortment of knick-knacks. John paused at an apothecary chest set beneath the window. It was topped with a piece of red satin fabric, half a log with three holes drilled in it to hold partially spent taper candles, and an assortment of pine cones and small pine boughs. A small Tanto blade with a black handle lay to one side. "Yule log," said Evan. "I don't have a fireplace, so I use the same one every year. When I went to Brigid's last night, we burnt hers in her fireplace." "Ritual stuff?" asked John softly.

"Yeah."

"Sounds... nice."

"Will you go to Christmas Mass?" asked Evan.

"Maybe." John stood looking out the window into the darkness, one hand braced on the wall,

drinking his wine. Evan sat watching him for several minutes. There was a rigid tension to his posture, and Evan could sense the chaos of emotions being partially suppressed. Grief, loneliness, and guilt all swirled together without any real separation.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 142

Evan set his glass on the coffee table and went to stand behind John. He slid his arms around John's waist and rested his chin on John’s shoulder. The darkness outside the window cast a reflection back at them. *** "I'm sorry. I'm being really bad company," John apologized, but made no move to pull away. "It's okay. You have reason," replied Evan. John leaned back just a little, allowing himself to appreciate the solid warmth of the body behind him. He tipped his head back against Evan's shoulder and blew out a long breath. John needed

this contact, needed someone to remind him of something other than death. Evan's lips brushed

lightly along his temple. John straightened up and set his wine glass on the window sill and

turned to face Evan.

"Wouldn't Madison shit bricks if she knew who I actually went home with?" John said, a sudden,

mercurial smile curving his lips.

His hand cupped against the back of Evan's head, pulling him into a kiss. Bodies pressed

together from thigh to shoulder, Evan pushed John back against the wall beside the window,

fingers tugging John's shirt loose from his belt. John nipped softly at Evan's throat with his teeth,

breathing against his lover's skin. Evan's breath sped up as John's hands gripped Evan’s hips, and

John could feel the hard length of Evan's arousal against his own.

The chirping sound of a cell phone broke the near silence. Both men froze for a moment before

Evan began fishing in his pocket for the source of the sound. He pulled out his cell.

"Garrett."

"Hey, it's Kyle. You busy doin' Fed stuff?"

"Dude, it's nearly midnight," said Evan.

"Yeah, so when did that ever make any difference?"

"I'm guessing this isn't a social call..."

"Oh, yeah, like I always call my ex-detective buddies in the middle of the night. What do you

think?" said Kyle.

"So what's up?"

"I just heard some chatter over the channels and they mentioned a DB, a knife, and some

candles, along with possible torture, and guess who I thought of?"

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 143

"Well... Shit. Are you at the scene?"

"Hell, no. I'm in Foggy Bottom dealing with a shooting during a car jacking. I thought maybe I'd

save us locals a whole lot of hassle, since you Feds are probably gonna yank jurisdiction on us

anyway."

"Got an address?" asked Evan.

"Yeah," Kyle replied, and gave him directions.

"Got it. And Kyle, I owe you a beer."

"Damn right," said Kyle.

Evan thumbed off his phone, then brushed a brief kiss across John's lips. "Grab your coat, we

gotta go, now."

"Who was that?"

"Kyle Matheson. PD buddy of mine. He said there's a fresh scene that looks like one of ours."

"Here we go again," said John, hastily tucking his shirt back in and grabbing his jacket. "I'll start

calling the team. You drive." Evan was already heading toward the door. *** December 23, 2006 -- 12:35 a.m. Evan pulled into a residential neighborhood. Ahead on the streets were a host of police and EMS vehicles. Parking behind one of the police cars, John and Evan got out and walked toward a cluster of people. There was a lingering scent of smoke in the air, and a firefighter in turnout gear came tromping out the front door of a house. Evan noticed a man in a heavy winter jacket with a radio in hand that looked familiar. "That guy, he's one of the detectives with the local police department I can't remember his name, but I bet he's in charge," said Evan. John headed toward him, pulling out his SIS ID. "Benchley. SIS. We need to have a look at the scene." The man gave him an irritated look. "Some lady already beat you to it. A feisty redhead wearing a fancy dress. She's inside with the guy from the coroner's office."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 144

"That'd be Fiona Mills," said John. "Is the house... smoldering?" "Yeah. The fire department says it's more smoke than anything else. During the incident, it looks like a couple of candles got knocked over. The drapes were burning. Well, smoking anyway. So why are the Feds interested in this?" asked the police man. "Ongoing case. We'll let you know," replied John. He walked in the direction of the front door, Evan trailing him. They made their way to a back bedroom. A female body was handcuffed to the headboard of a bed, wearing what could only be described as artfully placed leather straps. A number of narrow, blood-stained knife wounds crisscrossed her arms. One in particular, however, led to a fairly huge puddle of blood on the sheets. The room reeked of smoke and soggy shreds of burned curtains hung in the window. A number of pillar candles lay kicked over on the floor. Fiona stood talking to the coroner's tech. She glanced up as John and Evan approached. "According to the very, very hysterical guy in the back of the squad car, she never said the safe word," said Fiona. "Jesus Christ..." muttered John. "I take it this was kinda sorta an accident, then?" "They were, um... playing, apparently, and he cut her too deep. She started bleeding way more than she was supposed to. He freaked and kicked over a batch of the candles on his way to call 911. And, well, this is the result," Fiona said. "Not our case, obviously." She followed the two men back out of the house. John was busily calling Rich and Todd, telling them not to bother making it to the scene. Outside, Evan leaned against the fender of his car and watched John talk to the guy in charge of the scene. It only took a few minutes, then John headed back in Evan's direction. "So that was a complete waste of our time," said John. "We couldn't know. On the surface, it sounded related." "Yeah, yeah." "What do you want to do now?" "It's late. I've got stuff to do tomorrow. Actually, I guess, given the time, I should say later today. Can you give me a lift home?" asked John. "Sure." ***

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 145

Sunday, Dec 24, 2006 -- 2 p.m. Derek eyed the gun cabinet in the corner of his father's office. He wanted a 9mm, but was still more than a year too young to legally get one. Yeah, there was a possibility he could find someone to sell him one on the black market. Anything was for sale at the college if you could contact the right people, but that seemed like such an unnecessary hassle. His dad didn't go to the range all that often anymore. If Derek just took the one in the cabinet, would he even notice it was gone? There weren't going to be any more witnesses, especially the unintended kind. Charles Montgomery came into the office, a brandy snifter in one hand and his cell phone in the other. "Sure, come over anytime, we'll be here all evening," the older man said, and hung up. "Were you looking for me, Derek?" Derek plunged into his request. "I was. A buddy of mine, Mark, and I were talking about going to the firing range over break. Can I borrow your Sig? I'd rather use one I've fired a few times than some rental job." "Yeah, I guess so. Please clean it when you're done with it." "I will," promised Derek. Oh, man, that had been easy.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 146

Chapter 20

Comfort

Monday, December 25, 2006 -- 7 p.m.

Sixteen hours, eight hours up and eight hours back. John had spent sixteen long, excruciating

hours in the car, alone with his thoughts and his memories, but that was kind of the point.

Cecelia had once described it as his own version of penance, punishment for surviving when

Doug hadn't. This, he supposed, included all the others he'd outlived, too.

John pulled the rental car into the SIS building parking lot and got out, trying to stretch the crick

out of his back. There was another car in the lot. It took him a moment to realize it was Evan's.

John trudged up the stairs and walked into the main workroom. Evan was sitting at his desk,

typing what appeared to be email. He glanced over his shoulder as John walked in.

"What the hell are you doing here?" John demanded. He had no desire to be social.

Evan swiveled his chair around to face John. "Waiting on you," said Evan.

"It's Christmas Day. You have family. Why aren't you with them?" asked John.

"I was, for a while. But you forget, my family doesn't do Christmas. Not really, anyway. We

celebrate Yule on the solstice. Christmas is just a secular holiday with Santa and presents for the

children."

John leaned his head back on the wall beside the door to the stairwell, eyes closed. He felt ready

to drop from exhaustion. "Go home," he said. "I just drove eight hours. And I'm not in the mood

for chit-chat." He stalked in the direction of his office. Evan got in his way. John glared at him.

"What the hell do you want?"

"You," said Evan. He shoved John back against the wall and pressed his body weight against

John. John lifted his hands to push Evan away, but Evan caught his wrists and kissed him hard.

Lips crushed against John's, tongue parting his partner's teeth, Evan dropped all his shielding and

sent a flood of fierce, protective affection against John's mind. John's own psychic shielding

caved inward under the onslaught.

*** Grief and anger, pain and loneliness seeped through; Evan was nearly overwhelmed by it all. Evan drew back his head a few inches. John's breathing was ragged, and he leaned his forehead against Evan's cheek. "I want you to know that you don't have to be alone. Give in. Let me in. I care about you. You need someone," whispered Evan.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 147

John looked at him. Unshed tears shone in his eyes, those oh so blue eyes, completely bloodshot in weariness. "Ev, it's not that simple..." "No, it probably isn't. But pretend it is. For one night, forget your past and just live in the moment." John's body was tight and tense against his. "Why don't we go up to your quarters and have a beer and let you unwind? Driving all the way from Boston had to have been a bitch," said Evan. John merely nodded a little in silence. Evan all but dragged John up the stairs, and they sat on the sofa drinking beer as they halfway watched some seasonal program on TV. Exhaustion finally began overcoming tension, and John slouched against Evan. "Hold out your hand," said Evan. John gave him a curious look and held out his hand. Evan dug a hand in his own pocket. He drew out something rather small and dropped it into John's open hand. It was a silver Thor's hammer on a black silk cord. John looked puzzled. "Merry Christmas," said Evan. Now, John looked embarrassed and opened his mouth to apologize. Evan put a hand against John's mouth. "Don't. I didn't expect you to. Hear me out. I know you're Catholic, so I couldn't buy you a pentacle. I kind of gambled on a Thor's hammer being neutral enough to fit the bill of protection, without having too overt a pagan overtone. Wear it tonight, then if you want, you can toss it in a drawer and forget it." *** John was deeply touched by the gift. The metal was warm from being in Evan's pocket, but there was more. It felt familiar and steady. "It feels like you..." said John in a hushed tone. "It ought to. I've had it for fourteen years." Evan smiled. John was startled. "Evan, I can't..." "It wasn't a gift to me. I bought it myself when I went to high school, because it wasn't blatant. And if someone saw it, I could pass it off as something I wore because I hung out with a batch of medieval rec people half the time," Evan explained. John carefully slipped it over his head. The small weight against his chest felt so right. "Thank you. No one has ever... given me something so personal." Tears were sliding down his face, and he wiped his face harshly with his sleeve. "What about Liz?" asked Evan. John let out a snort of bitter laughter. "The Christmas we were together, she gave me an iPod and lift tickets to Vale. And then the shit hit the fan around here and we never went."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 148

Evan put an arm around John's shoulders and pulled John tighter against his body. He stroked his fingers through John's hair, hugging John’s head to his shoulder. John let himself give in to the sheer comfort of being in the arms of someone who cared. They sat immobile for a number of minutes before John's stomach growled loudly. "So when's the last time you ate?" Evan chided him. "I dunno. Sometime this morning." "It's after nine. Any chance you have food in your kitchen?" "Coffee and bagels. There's a batch of thing-in-a-box stuff in the freezer," answered John. "You're hopeless. Come on back downstairs. I know there's a reasonable amount of stuff in the kitchen down there." *** In the workroom kitchen, Evan put a big pot on the stove top and half filled it with water. He opened a can of chicken and threw it in, along with some frozen vegetables and leftover rice from Chinese take-out. John levered himself up onto the far end of the counter and sat with his legs dangling off, watching Evan. There was something indefinably sweet in the way Evan worried about him. "This is your idea of easy food?" John asked. "Yeah, beats frozen stuff out of a box... Mmm, reminds me I need to put sage, whole peppercorns, and egg noodles on the list of stuff to get." Evan was putting together bread and cheese for grilled cheese sandwiches while he spoke. "So who taught you to cook?" "Mom. When you have five kids, eating out frequently is not really an option. Everyone learned to cook, do laundry, clean up. You know, basic life stuff." "Don't you need a recipe? Not for the sandwiches, even I can manage that. But for the soup..." John said. Evan laughed. "Not hardly. Anything short of baking is flexible. Besides, I actually like to cook. And I've had lots of experience." He came to stand in front of John, between his knees. "You, on the other hand, I figure, cook just enough not to starve to death." "Yeah, pretty much," John said with a smile. Evan fisted a hand carefully in the front of John's shirt and pulled him down into a kiss. It was soft and lingering. "You need a keeper," whispered Evan.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 149

"Are you volunteering?" "Uh-huh." John threaded his hands through the short curly hair of the man in front of him as he gazed down into deep green eyes. His breath hitched. It was just too late. John knew he was hopelessly in love, and he wondered just how he was going to survive getting his heart broken this time. Every time it happened, it blindsided him, and he always swore he wouldn't let it happen again. Yet this seemed so very different. Maybe it was just so different from Liz. The sex with her had been awesome, but there had never been any comfort. If he was felled by a migraine, she left him alone. If he was tearing his hair out because of the stress of work, she might condescend to try to distract him, but listening wasn't an option. She was not the compassionate type. John couldn't even begin to imagine Liz holding him the way Evan had while he fell apart like the night of Stuart's death. John stroked a thumb along Evan's cheek and whispered, "I wish." "It wasn't a casual offer." "I... I'm not sure what I have to offer in return." "No promises. No commitments. Just someone to watch your back. And make sure you remember to take care of yourself, at least a little. Or let someone else do it for you." "I can try," said John. "Good... And now would be a good time for you to throw the sandwiches in the pan." Evan smiled. Soup and sandwiches eaten, dirty dishes left in the sink, they headed back up to John's place. Somewhere along the stairs, John held out his hand and was pleased that Evan quickly took it. Back in the den, John drew him into a kiss, sliding both arms around Evan's body, wanting so badly for just a taste of the care Evan had offered him. *** They stumbled toward the sofa, mouths together, tongues exploring as hands fumbled at clothing. Evan pushed John down onto the cushions, pulling the buckle of his belt open. He looked down into John's face. Lips parted, pupils blown wide, skin slightly flushed, oh God, John was just gorgeous... and so very vulnerable. Evan stilled. He let his empathic senses brush across John's shields very deliberately. They didn't drop, but they softened, allowing out more than just hints of his emotions. There was desire and lust, but there was also pain and longing and a want to blunt old memories. John's fingers reached up and touched Evan's lips.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 150

"Did I do something wrong?" John whispered, and hurt shone in his eyes. Evan's breath hitched. The first time they had sex had been a breathless affirmation of safety against the side of the Hummer, followed by a way to comfort and distract John after the nightmare. This had to be different. It had to be about caring. "No, not at all. I... How 'bout we use the bed? We have all night," said Evan. "I want... this to be... slower." He slid off the edge of the sofa where he was straddling John's legs and held out a hand to pull John up. In the bedroom, John started to unbutton his shirt, but Evan caught his hand. "Let me," Evan said softly. John gave him a puzzled look and let his arms fall. Evan undid the buttons slowly and eased the shirt off John's shoulders to fall on the floor. He drew the T-shirt underneath up over John's head and dropped it to the floor also. The light from the bedside table threw the softly defined planes of his musculature into relief and highlighted a long, narrow scar a couple of inches above his waist. Evan had noticed it before; now he traced it with a finger. It ran on a slight diagonal from his side toward his navel. "A legacy of the bomb. I used to have a spleen..." John said. "Used to?" "It was ruptured by the impact from the blast. Massive internal bleeding and all that. They took it out to keep me from bleeding to death. Cecelia and whoever else was on duty that night." His tone was tight. "Doug was DOA." Evan cupped his hands around John's face and kissed him gently, then ran his hands down over John's shoulders, feeling the tension beneath the skin. He drew John toward the bed and pushed him gently down onto it, pulling off John's shoes before taking off his own. Evan shed his own shirt. "Have any massage oil or baby oil?" Evan asked. "Top drawer," John replied, pointing at the nightstand. Evan pulled the drawer open and lifted the bottle out. "You are strung about as tight as a guitar string. Roll over," Evan said. John gazed at him for a long moment, then obeyed. Evan straddled John’s hips and began to work the oil into the skin of his partner, knuckles kneading into the tight back muscles. John let out a sigh of pleasure. Evan's strong fingers glided across John's skin. He felt the tension begin to release from the body beneath him, and it was so much more than just physical.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 151

"How long did you say you spent in the hospital?" asked Evan. "Three weeks. Followed by a couple weeks of outpatient rehab." "That's a lot." "Uh-huh," murmured John. "Did they catch the people responsible?" "Yeah, 'ventually." John's eyes were closed and his words a sleepy slur. Evan realized John was probably mere moments from falling asleep. He smiled to himself. Although that hadn't exactly been his intention, he continued his strokes down John's back until the only response was the deep, even breathing of sleep. As little sleep as the man had probably gotten over the past few weeks, sheer willpower was likely the only thing holding him together. Carefully, Evan crawled off of the bed and stripped the rest of his clothes off. As he collected the beer bottles left in the den earlier and put them in the kitchen, he wondered if he should expect the nightmares to commence shortly. Evan went back into the bedroom and pulled the blankets up over his sleeping lover and slid in beside him. John stirred several times in the night, emitting faint whimpers of distress. Each time, Evan rubbed his hands against John's skin until he settled again. *** A couple of hours before dawn, John's head popped up, and he looked around in the darkness in confusion. He was wrapped around a deliciously warm body. Evan. John was coming to be very familiar with the texture of his presence. The beer had caught up to his bladder, and he shifted carefully away from the warmth. Bathroom. He slipped out of bed and crossed the room. There was no need for a light. Shivering with cold, John carefully slid back between the sheets. "You okay?" asked Evan softly. "Call of nature." He felt Evan's arm ease around him, and he guiltily snuggled into the body heat. "I didn't mean to crash out on you. I'm sorry," John said. "Don't be. You hardly ever actually relax." Evan's thumb traced along John's lips. John opened his mouth and sucked Evan's thumb in, nibbling on it with tongue and teeth. Evan drew a sharp breath in.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 152

John ducked his head under the blankets, and he kissed his way along the length of his partner's body. Nuzzling wiry curls of chest hair, he breathed a trail downward, nipping carefully along Evan's belly. John stuck his tongue in Evan's belly button, and Evan let out a low chuckle. With hands stroking hip bones, John reached his goal and licked across the tip of his lover's arousal. Evan squirmed a little. Face nestled against the front of Evan's hip, John closed his eyes and forced himself to drop all his shielding. He wanted to gauge every single response for maximum effect. Evan deserved every ounce of his attention. Evan's hand rested between John's shoulder blades, fingers kneading slowly. John opened his mouth and deep throated Evan's hard cock as far as he could manage. Evan's hips bucked in an uncontrolled response accompanied by a moan. Hands, lips, tongue. One action at a time, he brought Evan close to that metaphoric edge before twisting back up toward the top of the bed. He kissed Evan passionately, grinding his own erection against Evan's thigh. "Condom," he mumbled against Evan's mouth. "Uh-huh." John groped into the top drawer of the night stand. "You." "You like to bottom?" Evan said. "With you... yeah." On his hands and knees, John's breath came in ragged gasps. Every thrust from Evan seemed to cause bright sparks in his vision. The fact the room was dark only intensified the illusion. John's fingers clenched into the sheets and his back arched as he came against his belly and the sheet and Evan's fingers, muscles spasming and jerking. Evan's hand on his hip held him steady for another half a minute before Evan's climax slammed through him. John could feel the echoes of his partner's orgasm flitting through his own nervous system. Guys didn't get to have two in a row, but damn, this was a close approximation. They both collapsed in an untidy tangle, sweat filming their bodies. Evan's face was nestled into the side of John's neck, lips grazing softly, John breathed in his scent, enjoying the texture of his mind as much as the warmth of his body. He could sense Evan's contemplation. Evan apparently found it curious that John would "sub" for anyone, given his personality. *** I trust you. Evan's eyes fluttered open, and he found himself staring past the side of John's face into the darkness. Given that his psychic gift leaned heavily toward emotions, he didn't often get clear, speech-like thoughts from others.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 153

"Huh?" muttered Evan in confusion. I said I trust you. John twisted around to face Evan and cupped both hands against his face. When I got so messed up by the killer drug cocktail, I took a leap of faith. You caught me... You could've destroyed me, but you didn't. John's lips were kissing softly down the side of Evan's face. I wouldn't. I couldn't. You're too important, said Evan. Evan's hand tightened against John's skin, savoring the intensity of the link. I would never hurt you, not intentionally. So tired... Go back to sleep. I'll hold you, Evan promised. John made a sleepy noise of assent and curled more tightly against him. *** In the dim morning light, Evan woke to find John once again wound as tightly around him as he could possibly get without literally being on top of him. Evan smiled a little. Evan could get used to being a human teddy bear. *** Sunlight was streaming though the window. It was long, long past dawn. John pried his eyes open. He was sprawled across the bed, naked, blanket half around his legs, stuck to the sheets. The sheets smelled like sex. Him and Evan. Evan was nowhere in sight; on the other hand, he

smelled coffee.

John heard the soft sound of bare feet on carpet, and he rolled over. Evan padded into the room.

He was wearing his jeans. Nothing else.

"Hey, sleepy head. I fired up the coffee pot." He smiled, crawling onto the bed.

"What time is it?" John asked, voice still thick from sleep.

"Twelve-thirty."

"Oh, shit." He sat up suddenly.

"Relax," said Evan, pushing him back down and promptly lying on top of him, pinning him. "It's

the day after Christmas. The world hasn't ended. Nobody cares if you slept late for a change.

Something like twelve hours, not counting the late-night distraction."

"Oh, that..." John let a little grin curve his lips.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 154

"Yeah, that." Evan laughed, quickly kissed John, and got up. "I'll go check on coffee." John slid out of bed and headed in the direction of the bathroom. He returned in a couple of minutes, taking a look at the bedroom. There were clothes on the floor, the bed was a mess, and a tube of lube leaked on the nightstand. He grabbed his own jeans off the floor and put them on, shuffling toward the kitchen. His brain was still in a fog. Twelve hours, the first real sleep in weeks, and his body craved more. The coffee pot was slurping to a finish. John sat down at the kitchen table and scrubbed his hands down over his face. Stubble rasped against his palm. He needed a shave. He wasn't sure where Evan had gone. He poured a cup of coffee, chucked sugar into it, and stirred. Evan came in through the hallway door, clothes in his hands. "From my locker," Evan said. "I figured some clean clothes might actually be a good idea after a shower." John gave him a stupid grin, admiring the broad shoulders and narrow hips. "I'm sorry I fell asleep on you last night. The drive and all," John apologized again. "You needed it. I wasn't kidding when I said you need a keeper. I know things have been a lot rougher than usual lately, but the human body still needs a minimum amount of sleep and food. You really push the limits sometimes." John stared into his coffee cup for a moment before looking back up at Evan. "You sound like Cecelia," John said. "I'll take that as a compliment. She worries about you... Did I remember correctly you said something about bagels in the fridge?" "Yeah, there should be," John replied. Evan opened the refrigerator and hunted for a moment before dragging out a sleeve of them. "Cream cheese?" "Doubt it. I usually put Nutella on 'em" "That weird chocolate stuff? Oh, that's just so healthy," Evan teased. *** Tuesday January 2, 2007 Rob Eisler heaved his backpack and a large duffle bag of clean clothes into the back of Todd's car. Todd had volunteered to drive him back down to college for the start of the second semester.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 155

In the few weeks since his father's death, things had been tense and strained between Rob and his mother. He'd never been as emotionally close to her, and the grief that hung between them seemed to be making things worse. At the moment, the opportunity to escape back to school and concentrate on making up the exams he had missed seemed a blessing. "Ready?" asked Todd, looking over the top of the car at him. "Um... gotta say bye to Mom," Rob replied. He walked back into the foyer where his mother stood, avoiding the cold air. "Call me from the dorm. If you decide you want to sit the semester out, just call me. I'll come get you. School can wait if it needs to," Vanessa rambled. "Mom... I need to do this. I'll call you this evening," he said, and let her hug him. Then he turned and went back out to the driveway where Todd was waiting. *** An hour passed before Rob relaxed enough to consider talking to Todd. The ex-Marine and he shared a passion for military history. Over the past few years, Todd had taken Rob to a number of the military museums in the metro area, happy to have an interested teenager tag along. A spiral notebook lay on Rob's leg, and he doodled as the car sped along the highway. "Just how nasty do you think getting keelhauled is?" asked Rob. Todd made a face of puzzled confusion. "I suppose it depends on if you're drowning or getting half your skin scraped off by the barnacles," replies Todd. "Why?" "I was reading a book about naval warships of the early eighteen hundreds. It mentioned keelhauling as punishment, just kind of a side note. It got me thinking about...Well... Do you think there's any real chance they'll catch the guy responsible for killing my dad?" Rob asked tentatively. Todd glanced at him. The "official story" details floated through his head. "I wish I could say absolutely, and we'll push for the death penalty," offered Todd. "At least you're honest about it." That comment gnawed at the lining of Todd's stomach. "We're trying hard. John is... good at what he does. SIS gets results," said Todd. "Yeah, um, Dad always said SIS could deal with things other agencies couldn't. Black ops sort of thing, I guess. That's the sort of thing he used to do for the CIA. " "I suppose you could say that." Todd glanced at the pad of notebook paper lying in Rob's lap. "Whatcha drawing?"

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 156

"Oh, just doodling. And I was trying to wrap my brain around the whole placement of personnel on deck in battle. Stuff from the naval book. So I ended up dreaming about it last night. Then somehow one of the cannons turned into this whopping big demon with, like, mega-long claws. Geez, dreams are just so whacked sometimes," sighed Rob. Todd drove for a moment in silence, thinking. "Did you draw it?" Todd asked. "The ship?" "Actually, I meant the demon thing. Maybe if you draw it, then it won't bug you." Todd couldn't even count the number of times he had seen Stuart doodling away in meetings and in the SUVs and so many other times. Did Rob know what the doodles his father did led to? It wasn't like the team talked about it to any extent, but John had alluded to the idea that psi stuff tended to run in families. "Your father liked to draw stuff..." he said, cautiously. "Yeah, he did. He'd leave Mom these goofy little cartoony people with speech bubbles, if he wanted to leave her a note." Rob's tone was somewhat wistful. Todd decided that it sounded like maybe Stuart had never talked about his psi Talent to his son, then his opinion changed when Rob continued. "Then there's other stuff he drew. The glimpses." Todd waited for him to continue, but Rob lapsed into silence, staring out the window. "Do you do that?" Todd prompted. "Do what?" "Draw... other stuff?" He grimaced a little, feeling like he was trying to avoid leading a witness. "Yeah, now and then. It's mostly stupid shit. Something that's going to be on the news, what my girlfriend's gonna wear, what totally weird crap off the net my roommate's gonna show me. Just dumb stuff. Did Dad talk to you about it?" "A little. It came up from time to time on the job." "Oh." Rob returned to silence again. When they stopped for lunch in Richmond, Todd picked up the pad that Rob had left tossed on the front seat of the car. He flipped through the pages. The nose of a warship with enormous sails graced one page, another held a rough sketch of a man clinging to the ropes strung from a mast, then the drawings became darker and more bizarre. A cannon with "Scooby-Doo" eyes graced one page. A hand with claws nearly as long as the fingers and a somewhat reptilian face featuring a nasty, leering mouth was on the next. There was the nose of a car in the background. The last sketch held a dark, irregular shape resembling a puddle and a brick wall and a hand holding a gun and... a foot that seemed to be tied to a board or something similar.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 157

Todd mentally filed the information. Did John know that Rob had at least hints of his father's Talents? John had spent large, intermittent chunks of time with Stuart's family. Perhaps John knew, but there were no guarantees. Todd would grab John at some point when he got back from Williamsburg and mention it. Yeah, it would probably twist the knife of grief a little, but if John didn't already know, he should.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 158

Chapter 21

Linkage Blindness

Wednesday January 3, 2007

At eight thirty-five in the morning, the SIS team was madly scrambling to head out to a scene. The Maryland State Police had been notified that the body of a young woman had been found in a Dumpster behind an IHOP. An employee had found her when she went out with an early morning load of trash. The lanky brunette waitress who'd discovered the body was sitting in the back seat of a squad car, legs hanging out, when SIS arrived. John, Evan, and Fiona bailed out of the first SUV, and John immediately began giving orders. Todd, Rich, and Cecelia climbed out of the second Hummer and began unloading gear. "Todd, take the perimeter. Rich, start getting details from the restaurant staff. Evan, see if you notice any nasty leftovers," John called, yanking on a pair of gloves. He walked toward the Dumpster and gingerly grabbed hold of the top corner. Putting a foot on one of the metal struts, he hoisted himself up for a clear look down into the container. A waif-thin, blonde girl was carelessly flung on the top of a number of bags of trash. Her abdomen and part of her chest had been slashed open, similar to the victim from the vacant lot behind the shopping center. John gagged a little at the smell of blood mixed with decaying trash. She was young. He guessed maybe fifteen or sixteen. A surge of anger rushed through him. Who was she? Runaway teenage prostitute or just some high school girl on her way home? Were there parents waiting anxiously for a child who would never come home? Just like another family whose husband and father would never come home. He clenched his jaw and shut his eyes for a moment. Hopping down from the edge of the Dumpster, he flagged Cecelia. "We need an approximate time of death. Hey, Fiona!" he called. The short computer tech headed toward him. "I don't know if the McDonald's across the street has their drive-through camera pointed enough in this direction to be useful. Find out." She nodded and headed off across the corner of the parking lot. John walked in the direction of the squad car, where Rich was talking to the woman who had found the body. She was pale and shaky and looked thoroughly rattled. Halfway to the vehicle, John was intercepted by another man on an intersecting course. Taylor Vanderbilt was wearing a trademark FBI windbreaker over his suit. Mr. I'm-FBI-and-I'm-moreimportant-than-you. "Get out. This is my crime scene!" John snapped. Taylor Vanderbilt stopped and glared at John. "I beg to differ, Benchley," Vanderbilt said, his tone perilously close to snarl. "This case now involves three states and at least three bodies. That makes it FBI jurisdiction."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 159

"Bullshit! This is so far out of your realm, it would just melt your brain!" John's voice was getting louder. "Since when is serial murder out of the FBI's realm? You people are clueless. How many more people are going to have to die before you catch this guy? I heard you even let him take out one of your own!" John's fists clenched at his sides. Vanderbilt continued. "You are a bunch of ghostbuster fuck-ups!" *** Evan was a handful of steps away. He realized John's anger level had jumped from annoyance to fury, and there was no way he could get between the two men fast enough. John grabbed Vanderbilt by the edges of his jacket and slammed him backward across the hood of the police car. John drew back his fist to drive it into Vanderbilt's face, but Evan threw an arm around John's throat, hauling him backward away from the FBI man. John thrashed against Evan's restraining arms. "I'm gonna kill him. I'm gonna fucking punch his lights out!" John screamed. Evan kicked a heel against the back of John's leg, knocking him to the ground, pinning him with a knee in between his shoulder blades, one arm bent up painfully behind his back. "John! JOHN! Quit! Chill out!" Evan yelled. John flailed against the pavement for another minute before finally going reasonably still. Evan could feel his chest heaving with exertion. "If I let you up, are you going to be in control?" John huffed out another half dozen breaths before he replied. "Yeah," he growled. Evan stood up. John scraped himself up off the ground and brushed rather ineffectively at the dirt ground into his clothing. His anger still radiated, and Evan was uncertain if his new boss was about to try and have another go at Vanderbilt. He grabbed a handful of the fabric at the front of John's shirt and pulled him in the direction of one of the Hummers, around to the other side, somewhat out of view of the rest of the people on scene. "What the fuck is your malfunction?" Evan demanded, pressing John against the side of the H2 with his forearm across John's chest. "That sonofabitch accused me of being responsible for Stuart's death! As if I don't have enough problems trying to deal with what happened!" John spat out. "I don't give a shit what he said. Physically attacking him is bad news! This is going to come back to bite you in the ass big time!" "I don't care," raged John. "John..."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 160

"Leave me the fuck alone. Does everyone think I just let Stuart die?" "John, he doesn't..." Evan began. "Fuck you. Don't you dare defend him!" "John! You will stay away from him, or so help me, I will handcuff you to the truck!" "FINE! Whatever!" John grabbed an SLR camera from the back of the vehicle and stalked off across the parking lot. Evan assumed John went to start taking pictures of the buildings along the road. Evan heaved a sigh. He knew John was still treading that razor-edge line of PTSD at intermittent intervals. His bouts of depression, the horrific nightmares, and yes, the flashes of uncontrolled rage, were all snarled together as the man continued to stumble his way through doing his job. Evan stared at the sky for a moment. Any police department would have pulled him from duty for a least a couple of weeks, probably longer. SIS was too damn small, and John was the guy in charge. The fact that things had been eerily quiet over the holidays was probably the only thing that was allowing him to hold it all together. *** Rich had finished interviewing the waitress. Poor woman, she really knew precious little. The only reason she had even noticed the body was that the Dumpster lid had fallen shut, and she had climbed halfway up on the edge to lever it open and dispose of some trash bags. Rich talked to the manager, another waitress, a bus boy, three other staff members, and two customers. Evan had just begun the whole bagging and tagging of potential evidence detail by the time Rich was done. Rich offered him a hand, and they split the parking lot area. Two soda cans, several paper cups and straws, a parking garage ticket, a condom wrapper, cigarette butts, and about fifty other items of miscellaneous debris numbered among the items. "Think that thing between John and Vanderbilt's going to come back to bite him in the ass?" Rich asked Evan. "Maybe... I'm hoping the guy's got enough sense to realize you don't goad somebody who's just lost their partner and expect them to take it lying down." "Yeah, I hope." replied Rich. The body was eventually loaded in the back of one of the H2's for autopsy back at headquarters, and the team slowly gathered up their gear and evidence and departed. John sat silently in the passenger seat while Rich drove, mostly just staring out the window. Fiona was in the back, laptop on her legs, beginning to review the recordings from the McDonald's.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 161

"You think there's going to be anything on the film you shot?" asked Rich, glancing at John. "Doubt it. It was a body dump. That parking lot was way too open a place to do anything like call up a demon. Make the film low priority, work on the other stuff first," replied John. *** Wednesday January 3, 2007 -- 1:30 p.m. Rich and Evan began processing the huge collection of evidence bags when they got back to the office. Todd went to give Cecelia a hand with the body. He was less squeamish about that sort of thing. Fiona was parked in front of her computer continuing her search of the security camera photos from the McDonald's. Dusting for prints and examining garbage did not qualify as a thrill. Rich picked up a baggie containing a small rectangle of light cardboard. There was a magnetic strip down the back side and a series of inkjet-printed numbers along one edge. 0102071845. He gazed at it for a minute. The first part had to be the date. Yesterday was the second of January. So what were the other four numbers for? Time? 1845 could mean 6:45 in the evening. "Don't most of the parking garages around the metro area take your ticket when you leave so they can tell you how much money to shell out?" asked Rich. Evan looked up from the soda can he was dusting. "Thought so. But wait, aren't there a few that if you leave after midnight, they just leave the gate up?" replied Evan. "Maybe. Hey, Fiona. Once I finish lifting this print, think you can read the magnetic strip on the parking garage ticket?" asked Rich. "Oh, probably," said Fiona. "Anything in particular you're looking for?" "I'm not sure. A location would be good. There's no imprint on this one to say which deck it's for," commented Rich. "Give me a few minutes to finish with this security tape. I'm almost done my first pass." Fiona spent another few minutes at her current task before passing the ticket through a magnetic reader. She ran it through a couple of programs. "Looks like it's for the Eighteenth Street deck on the campus of Holsinger College," she said. "That sounds... familiar," said Rich. "Um, um, Todd and I and that obnoxious rich kid trying to buy the Lamborghini," said Fiona, snapping her fingers.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 162

"And the building around the garden. The CEO guy is on the board of directors for the same college," said Evan. "Three hits on a case like this does not add up to a coincidence." "You forgot Marna St. John, English professor at said college," added Rich. "Fuck! I did forget her. And she was one of my cases, too," said Evan. "Didn't we try going down this road before and basically come up empty? We need to nose around and ask some more questions," suggested Rich. "Nope, nope, I've got a better idea," Fiona said. "I actually know an IT guy who does a whole lot of work for a batch of colleges in the area. Let me give him a call. If I can get into the main server for the college, I can pull up personnel files and student records. These people are fairly smart. We have a whole handful of dead bodies and apparently the ability to summon a demon. I don't think we want to go in there asking lots of questions straight up. We can cross check people without sending up tons of red flags," she finished. "Okay, who wants to draw straws to go talk to John and tell him our plan? He's hiding out in his office with the door closed again," joked Rich. "Hey, better you than me. He's already pissed at me for not letting him punch out Vanderbilt," replied Evan. *** Wednesday January 3, 2007 -- 2:30 p.m. Derek flopped down on the bed in Mark's room at the frat. It was the middle of the afternoon, and he had a couple of hours between classes. "Did you take Clare's Lexus back?" Derek asked.

"Yeah. I told her my car was in shop until tomorrow. She didn't seem to think that was weird or

anything," replied Mark.

"I think we're back on the control track now. Doing this one got us some more info. Next one

should leave us in really good straits for total control of big bad nasty."

"Yeah, guess so," said Mark.

***

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 163

Thursday, January 4, 2007 -- 10 a.m. Sitting on the edge of Lewis' desk, Fiona smiled at the guy. He was an on again, off again friendwith-benefits. They were currently in his office discussing access to the Holsinger College computers. "The search warrant will be delivered in an hour or so," she said. "We're supposed to meet the head of security, and then I need you to give me some passwords so that I don't waste three hours hacking your system." Lewis rolled his eyes. "You would, too, wouldn't you?" Fiona ran a hand through his blond curls and tapped a finger on the tip of his nose. "In a heartbeat, hon." Fiona spent the rest of the afternoon and most of the early evening plowing through data. It took a while, but she found some links. It would appear that the CEO of Burn, Myles, and Mori was on the board of directors and the father of one Derek Montgomery. Mr. Burn's son Gerald, was a member of the same fraternity as Montgomery. How interesting. It was starting to look more like Derek was somehow mixed up in the whole mess, rather than being a potential victim for this set of psychos. Deciding that she had been sitting on her butt way too long, Fiona picked up her purse and cell phone. The Order of Phlegethon's "frat house" was only a few blocks' walk. Along the way, she'd shoot a text message off to Todd and let him know what she was thinking. *** Thursday, January 4, 2007 -- 5 p.m. Todd was in the shooting range trying out some hollow point ammunition. The cell phone on his hip vibrated. He laid down his gun and pulled the phone off to look at it. It was a text message from Fiona. OFF 2 SEE ORDER OF PHLEG. MANSION. MAYBE HAVE LEAD ON SUSPECT. MORE LTR He shrugged and stuffed the phone back in his pocket. He'd thought she'd planned to spend the rest of the evening slogging through computer files, but if she believed she had a lead, it was probably worth following up.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 164

Chapter 22

Victim Risk

Thursday, January 4, 2007 -- 5:30 p.m.

I have a plan, thought Fiona as she walked along the tree-shrouded sidewalk toward the frat house. She was going to bluff her way in as tech support for the campus. At the very least, she should be able to poke around a little. If nothing turned up, she'd come back later with Todd and maybe the rest of the team, too. She knocked on the front door. It was a big place and fairly screamed money. A young man opened the door. He was blond eye-candy, wearing a tight T-shirt and sweat pants. "Hey, you here to see Randy?" he asked. He gave her an appraising look. "Um, no," she said, wondering if maybe she should have said yes. "I'm from the IT department." She gestured toward her laptop case. "I was sent to take a look at the connections here. I was told your access keeps going down and the college wants it resolved before the semester really gets going." "Oh, yeah, I think that must be Kyle's request. I think I heard him bitching about trying to start some research for a paper and he kept getting booted off the net." "If you could tell me where, I'll have a look," she said. *** Mark Beran was walking along the hall from the kitchen of the fraternity toward the stairs when he saw her. It was that woman who had come to question Derek after Chad Forsythe's death. Mark himself hadn't actually met her, but he had seen her there. What the hell was she doing here? Oh, God, the authorities must be closing in on them. But she was alone. If he did something about her, maybe it would buy him and Derek and Hugh some more time. He watched her go up the stairs and into Kyle's room. He'd keep an eye on the door and see when she came out. *** Thursday, January 4, 2007 -- 7:15 p.m. In the pale light from the street lamps, Fiona walked back toward the IT building. The trip to the frat had been fairly unproductive. There had been too many people around to do any actual poking around the frat house. She'd swing by the parking lot of the IT building, get her car, go back to SIS briefly, and check on some stuff she'd left running, then head home. First thing in the morning, she'd compare notes with the rest of the team and see if they had made any progress on their end of things.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 165

Footsteps. Fiona glanced over her shoulder but didn't see anything. Another woman walked past her, headed in the opposite direction. She must be a student, thought Fiona, and kept walking. It wasn't really all that much farther back to the parking lot. She pulled out her phone and began to punch another text in to Todd. NO JOY AT FRAT. BUT GET WEIRD FEELING B-ING FOL Suddenly, something smashed against the side of her head and she staggered. Strong arms grabbed her tightly, pinning her arms to her body, one hand over her mouth. She thrashed, but he was bigger and stronger, dragging her backward around the corner of a building. Fiona squeezed the send button on her phone, all the while trying to kick her assailant. He slammed her head against the side of a waiting car, and the pain grayed out her vision. The man's hand fisted in the back of her hair, holding her head down against the fender of the car as a second man bound her ankles. A gag was shoved in her mouth. Her phone was still in her hand, and she managed to jam it in her pocket. "Come on, stick her already!" snapped the first man. A sharp prick in her arm drew her attention. She struggled harder, but felt the drug beginning to slow her reflexes and turn her muscles to mush. Shit, shit, shit! What were the chances the text had made it through to Todd? And would he realize the incomplete message was a plea for help? Consciousness was fading as she was picked up and deposited none too gently in the trunk of a car. *** Thursday, January 4, 2007 -- 7:40 p.m. "You did what?" snarled Derek when Hugh cornered him in the library of the frat house. "That red-haired chick who interviewed you after Forsythe. Mark saw her here in the house a couple hours ago. He said we should grab her and get rid of her before she pulled the cops down on us," said Hugh. "You two are fucking morons! Don't you realize that somebody will undoubtedly miss her? Jesus Christ on a crutch. Where is she now?" demanded Derek. "Trunk of Mark's car, parked out behind the horticulture building. Figured we could use her for, well... the next step." "Asshole. Is she dead?" "No. Dosed her up good with the oxy. She should be stoned out her mind for a good while yet," said Hugh.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 166

"Okay. Give me an hour to get shit together. I'll meet you there. Go back and play guard dog and try not to fuck anything else up." *** Thursday, January 4, 2007 -- 8:35 p.m. Todd sat down in the chair at his desk and picked up his cell phone. He had left it there after he came up from the gun range. Glancing at the screen, it displayed a line noting a new text message from Fiona. NO JOY AT FRAT. BUT GET WEIRD FEELING B-ING FOL Oh, crap! He checked the menu to make sure she hadn't sent another message because she had pushed the send button too soon on the other one. Nothing. He dialed her number and let it ring several times. It flipped over to voice mail. "Hey, Fiona, you just sent me a text that was well, weird. You okay? Give me a buzz." He sat staring at the phone for another minute. It was silent. That was so unlike Fiona. She was far more likely to call back immediately with some sort of snarky comment. Todd got up and walked toward John's office. John was sitting cross-legged on the chair in front his desk, looking both frustrated and tired. "I just got a kind of weird message from Fiona," said Todd. "Hmmm? What kind of weird?" asked John, looking up from his keyboard. "Here, look." Todd handed his cell to John. "And this was sent... about an hour ago," said John. "You try to call her?" "Yep. No answer. Well, just voice mail. I can try again." "Do it. I'll go check her computer and see about activating the mobile locator function on her phone. Of course, if she dropped it, that's not going to help us." John handed the cell back to him. "True." Todd walked back out to the main office, dialing. John followed him and went to sit in front of Fiona's computer. Todd watched the screen over John's shoulder as his boss waded through a couple of different programs, looking for the right one. Although the team tended to call each other and shoot a lot of texts back and forth, they didn't track each other's locations very often. Fiona's voice mail picked up again. Todd had a bad feeling about this. "Uh... She's not on the campus any more. This shows a spot about a mile and half away from the IT building. It'll take another sixty seconds to refresh and ping her again. Then I guess we'll know if she... well, the phone is moving," said John. Todd crossed his arms, and decided that his

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 167

boss looked like he had suddenly gone from tired to absolutely stressed. "See if Cecelia's still

downstairs, and figure out where Evan and Rich went while you're at it."

Todd headed for the stairs.

*** Carpet, exhaust fumes, head bouncing slightly, Fiona wondered where she was being taken and why she wasn't dead yet... and then the thought slipped away. *** Thursday, January 4, 2007 -- 8:37 p.m. "I've got another hit on Fiona's location. This one is about three quarters of a mile from the last. So that means they're traveling maybe forty-five to fifty miles an hour. They're heading toward Rock Creek Park, I think," said John. The rest of the team had come back up to the workroom. "I had another go at calling her," said Todd. "Still no answer." "What exactly do we think's going on?" asked Evan. "If she thought someone was following her... I'm wondering if they grabbed her," said Todd. "Do you think she's dead? Cell phone with the body?" asked Rich. "God... Let's think positive, okay?" said John. "I'm not sure I'm up to losing another friend at this point. For all we know, there could be some ridiculous explanation for her not being able to answer the phone." "Uh-huh. She tripped and her cell phone fell into the back of a pickup truck and it promptly drove away and she couldn't get it back," said Todd. "That's sounds like a snarky comment from Fiona herself," replied Rich. "Do we have a game plan?" "You, Todd, and Cecelia take truck number one. Evan and I will take number two and the laptop, so we can keep on tracking the phone. And hopefully this will all turn out to be a complete waste of time and we'll all have a laugh," John said. They all headed down the stairs. ***

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 168

Thursday, January 4, 2007 -- 9:10 p.m. A gleam of light and sudden fresh air dragged Fiona back to something approaching consciousness. Hands groped across her breasts before she was hauled carelessly from the trunk and dumped on the grassy ground. "Quit it with the grabby stuff. She's gonna be dead in an hour or so," said one of the men. "Yeah, so? I can admire the package, can't I?" "Whatever. Since you're so hot for her, you strip her. Mark and I'll go set up." Strip? Fiona struggled to comprehend through the fog in her brain. Strip equaled naked, didn't it? Did that also imply rape? Oh, God, please don't let them rape me. Wait a sec, he'd had said something about dead in an hour. Her heart rate spiked in fear. Calm down, think. Her vision was blurry as she tried to get a good look at the man standing above her. If he took her clothes off, he'd have to untie her... Except he didn't. The man took out a knife and slit her slacks and underwear up each side and simply yanked the pieces free. He did essentially the same thing to her shirt and bra, accompanied by further groping. Fiona thrashed as much as she could, which really didn't amount to a lot. The binding on her wrists and ankles, combined with whatever drug she had been given, limited her movements to little more than sluggish wobbles. She was getting colder now, too. *** "The signal's stopped moving. It's on the west side of Rock Creek Park, not too far off Oregon Avenue. We'll aim for parking on the street itself and go in the rest of the way on foot. Make sense?" said John. He was talking to Rich on his cell phone as the two SUVs headed north toward the designated area. "Yeah. If she was grabbed by these demon-conjuring psychos, sneaking up on them might get her back alive," replied Rich. "I'm hoping," replied John. *** Two men held Fiona's wrists and ankles at the corners of a wide wooden bench, while a third applied duct tape. She was shivering intermittently in the cold. A flashlight was tucked under the third man's arm, and it cast an erratic beam of light as he moved. Fiona pulled against the tape, but it gave only slightly. She wanted to scream curses at these people, but the sounds that came out were faint whimpers around the gag in her mouth. Once they finished binding her to the bench, the men began setting out candles and shrugging into robes.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 169

"We good to go?" asked the one who seemed to be in charge. She was running out of time. A chill and oily sensation swiped across her chest. It had to be that stuff, that weird drug concoction that had been found on the other victims. The stuff that had messed John up so badly when he had accidentally gotten it on him. Maybe she'd never even feel the knife...

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 170

Chapter 23

Use of Deadly Force

Thursday, January 4, 2007 -- 9:45 p.m.

The remainder of the SIS team bailed out of the two vehicles parked on the edge of Oregon Avenue. The lighting from the street lamps was sparse and irregular beside the wooded area. Evan grabbed a Maglite and checked his weapon. He glanced at John. Tension literally radiated from the man. They'd hardly spoken two words to each other since their early morning confrontation. He wondered if John was still pissed at him or if that idea was so far from his thoughts now as to be irrelevant. John was leaning against the front bumper of the H2, one arm folded across his chest and his palm against his forehead. For an instant, Evan wondered if his boss was trying to cope with the fact they might not find Fiona still alive, then he felt a slight brush of thought and he realized John was searching with his psi Talents for some trace to direct them. Evan opened his own shielding. There was a faint hint. If asked to describe it, he would have said it felt slimy and smelled slightly like a Porta-Potty. John's hand dropped and their eyes met. "You feel it?" asked Evan. John nodded. "Think we can find them?" "Yeah. Follow the stench, so to speak. Okay, let's head out," said John. *** The group spread out slightly and crept through the wooded area. The beams from their flashlights bobbed as they walked. This wasn't exactly good covert ops, decided John. Todd had the only pair of night-vision goggles, because he was most familiar with them. John would have to tell Todd to look into getting some extra pairs and conducting a little training session when this was over. Hopefully, there were only a small handful of these people, and barring a revisit from the demon with the lethal claws, getting there before they gutted Fiona was the biggest problem. John glanced at Evan. He wanted to stretch out a hand and touch Evan, as much for his own reassurance as anything else. No, concentrate on the task at hand. Find Fiona. Pray that they weren't too late. *** Through the bushes and trees, Evan saw movement and some dim, flickering light. Candles. Todd was the closest person to him. He reached out and tapped a finger on the ex-Marine's shoulder. Todd nodded acknowledgement. From the clearing among the trees, they could all hear faint chanting. Evan felt a thickening in the air. Three robed figures were visible, and a wide wooden bench was between two of them. A pale form lay not quite still on top of the bench.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 171

"Shield your lights," hissed Evan, and everyone quickly pressed their lights against a leg or a sleeve to dim them. They all stood silently for a long moment. "On three," whispered Todd, and he glanced around at the other team members. Todd held up a hand and slowly raised his fingers one at a time. One, two three. The entire team burst out of the cover of the trees, guns drawn and flashlights aimed at the three figures surrounding the bench. There were shouts of "Freeze!" and "Federal agents! Don't move!" from the SIS group, and for a couple of seconds the people trying to start their ritual were motionless. *** "Aw, fucking hell! Go!" snapped Derek. This was all going to shit mighty fast. He dug inside his robe and pulled out the gun he had borrowed from his father. He had absolutely no intention of getting caught in all of this. Derek squeezed off a badly aimed shot at the people who had suddenly entered the clearing. Beside him, Hugh also drew a gun from under his robe. As the three men began to run, Mark gave his two armed companions a panicked look. *** "Todd, Celi, take care of Fiona! Evan, Rich, try to cut them off!" John barked out orders. Todd yanked off his night-vision goggles and threw them to John. John wrenched them on as he ran. The doctor and the ex-Marine darted toward the wooden bench where Fiona lay naked and ducttaped down. Beside the bench, Todd wrenched a Leatherman from his pocket and flipped it open. He began carefully slitting the duct tape binding Fiona to the table, as Cecelia was madly digging in her backpack for a syringe and a vial of diazepam. Fiona was thrashing weakly against Todd's hands, no doubt fighting against the violent hallucinations brought on by the drugs she had been painted with. Cecelia stabbed her in the leg with the syringe to administer the anticonvulsive, then grabbed a second vial, to counteract some of the rest of the mix. *** Among the trees at the far edge of the clearing, one of the robed men suddenly whirled and began firing on the SIS team. For John, the world dropped into slow motion. John saw Evan twist with the force of a bullet's impact, and fall. Evan groped one hand to his chest, and his body hit the grass with a thud. As the gunman started to take off again, John tracked him with the night goggles, aiming at his head and squeezing the trigger. Something tugged at his sleeve, but he barely noticed. There was dark splatter through the view screen as blood and brain matter sprayed. John heard the crack of more gunfire as Rich was firing on the other two assailants. "Two down. Going after the third," Rich yelled as John was sprinting toward Evan's fallen form.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 172

John dropped to his knees beside Evan, who lay sprawled on his back, clutching the right side of his chest. His flashlight had rolled across the ground and from several feet away cast a harsh beam of light across his legs. Blood was seeping between Evan's fingers, soaking his shirt. John ripped off the goggles and flung them to the grass beside him. "OhpleaseohpleaseGoddon'tdieonme," John mumbled in a semi-incoherent plea as he ripped Evan's shirt open. "Celi!" he screamed. "Evan's been hit!" *** Across the clearing, Cecelia heard John's cry. She thrust the vial and syringe into Todd's hand. "Give her two ccs!" she ordered as she hauled a wad of alcohol wipes and some gloves out of her backpack. She dumped them on the ground beside him as she scrambled to her feet. "Use the wipes! See if you can scrub some of that stuff off," she called over her shoulder as she ran. Racing across the grassy expanse, she practically skidded to a stop, dropping her pack and immediately digging for more medical supplies. Evan was lying in the grass, moaning. John was pressing his balled-up sweatshirt against Evan's chest with one hand. In the other hand, he had his cell phone and was talking to the nine-one-one operator. "This is SIS federal agent John Benchley I need an ambulance and police backup as fast as--" he began. "Two ambulances," Cecelia cut him off. He gave her a momentarily blank look, then glanced in the direction of where Fiona was. "Make that two ambulances. I have two agents down. One is critically injured with a gunshot wound to the chest." He continued to give location and other information as Cecelia began to examine Evan. "Talk to me, Evan honey," said Cecelia. She carefully moved John's hand and peered under the fabric of the bloody sweatshirt. Her flashlight was tucked under her arm, providing less than optimal illumination. "Fucking hurts," Evan gasped. "Uh-huh. Can you still feel your fingers and toes?" she asked. "...Yeah." She could see what was obviously a bullet wound in his chest, right side, above the diaphragm, roughly a hand span to the right of the sternum. He probably had a punctured lung. He probably had a tension pneumothorax. She carefully rolled him on his side. There was no sign of an exit

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 173

wound. As she eased him onto his back again, Evan let out a groaning cry of pain. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he coughed and gasped for air. "Sorry, honey. Had to see if it went through. This is going to hurt. John, hold his hands." She taped an occlusive dressing over the wound and peeled open a large-gauge syringe. Cecelia grabbed her stethoscope and spent a moment listening to his breath sounds. There wasn't much coming from the right side. She stabbed the needle between his second and third ribs and was rewarded by the hiss of air rushing out. Evan gulped in a deeper breath. Rich came jogging back out of the trees and squatted down beside John, saying, "I'm sorry, I lost the third guy. I figured maybe it was saner to come back and see if I could do something to help." John nodded. Cecelia judged from the expression on his face that he was mentally scrambling for what to do next. "Go back to the Hummers. The paramedics are going to need some guidance to get from where we parked to here," said John. "On it." Rich stood up. He squeezed John's shoulder before striding off toward where they had left the vehicles. The faint sound of a siren could be heard far in the distance. *** On the ground, Evan coughed some more and groaned as Cecelia inserted an IV needle in his arm. John was still holding his lover's hands. "Ev, look at me," John begged. "Hang in there. Help is coming." Evan blinked groggily at him. John was terrified. He couldn't bear to lose Evan, too. "'M cold..." Evan mumbled. "It's the shock. Evan, focus. Stay with me..." whispered John. He could see Evan was slipping toward unconsciousness. He extended his senses, trying to provide support. He could feel fear and confusion. He let go of Evan's hands and cupped his hand around Evan's face. John dropped his psychic shields and whispered against Evan's mind. Don't leave me. Please... Don't leave me, John pleaded. I need you. A hard shiver ran through Evan's body, and it tore a sound of pain from him. "Help me wrap this around him. It'll help hold in his body heat a little," said Cecelia. She was shaking a shiny Mylar survival blanket from its pouch. Together, John and Cecelia carefully rolled Evan enough to tuck it under his body and pull it up around him. Every movement brought little teeth-clenched gasps from the injured man. John slipped his hand under the blanket and gripped his lover's fingers again.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 174

"The paramedics'll be here soon. Just stay with me," whispered John. He could feel Evan struggling to remain calm as pain and difficulty breathing were driving him toward panic. Evan's fingers tightened on John's. "Trying... fuck... hurts," Evan whispered. John felt an accompanying spike of fear. John glanced at Cecelia. "Can I... hold him?" Cecelia considered the request for a moment, then nodded. John carefully scooped Evan up in his arms and hugged his lover gently against his body, offering Evan any comfort he could take from the contact. "You'll be okay," said John softly. "I won't let you go. You mean too much to me. I won't lose someone else. I won't let it happen." *** Cecelia stood up and walked a few steps away. She felt like she was intruding. She had known there was something between the two men. She just hadn't realized how intense it had become. The sirens were drawing closer. Thank God. Evan was possibly the glue holding John's sanity together after losing Stuart. If he lost Evan, too, it just might be the proverbial last straw. Not that losing Fiona would be a hell of a lot easier. Shit. Fiona. Cecelia really needed to check on her, too. There hadn't been any shouts of panic from Todd, so she must still be breathing and relatively stable. "John, I'm going to check on Fiona. Back in a minute," she said. He nodded. Evan was still cradled carefully in his arms, wrapped in the survival blanket She hurried back across the grass toward the bench. Todd had managed to free Fiona from the duct tape that bound her to the bench without too much loss of skin. He had wrapped her naked body in his jacket. Since Fiona was significantly shorter and smaller than him, the jacket covered her down to mid-thigh. He sat on the bench holding her across his lap, on the surface not all that different from the two men on the opposite side of the clearing. "Evan?" Todd said tentatively. "Not great, but I think I've got him stable for the moment. Any seizures?" said Cecelia. "Nope. I got as much of the stuff off as I could. She keeps mumbling stuff like 'help me' and 'hot' and 'where's the laptop?' She's definitely tripping." Fiona writhed sluggishly in his arms, mumbling something unintelligible. "Hey, it's okay. You're safe," he said. His hand brushed soothingly along her cheek, and her body relaxed again. "Since we had a clue what she was exposed to, hopefully the meds we gave her will keep her out of the danger zone that John experienced. I heard the sirens stop. That should mean that they

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 175

made it to where we parked the Hummers and Rich can guide them back here to us," said Cecelia. "Rich and I'll do clean up and stuff here. How many bodies?" "Two, I think. And all this..." She gestured toward the still-burning candles and other dropped items. There were sounds of numerous people coming through the woods. "Stay with Fiona. She's not in immediate danger. Evan needs to get transported first," she said, hurrying back toward her other patient. In the span of five minutes, there were the crews from two ambulances bearing Stokes baskets, along with DCPD and FBI personnel. While Cecelia supervised getting Evan ready to be carried back through the woods toward a waiting ambulance, John began to brief the local police. *** John turned from talking to a detective to watching four men lift the Stokes basket that Evan had been put into. Evan's face was tight with pain under the oxygen mask. John choked down the desire to follow. Cecelia was going with his injured lover. He trusted her. She would see that Evan got the best possible care. "Bring me up to speed, then you can go check on your people," said a familiar voice, and not a particularly welcome one at that. John turned back around. Taylor Vanderbilt was standing there in his trench coat. John opened his mouth to protest violently, then realized with two team members out of action and Cecelia on the way to the hospital with them, there was no way he could manage the aftermath with only Rich and Todd. "Um...Yeah, okay," he replied. "Any of that blood yours?" asked the FBI man. John looked down at his clothes and hands. There were smears and splotches on his shirt and jeans. His sweatshirt had gone... well... somewhere after he had used it to try to control Evan's bleeding. His shirt sleeve was soaked and blood dripped slowly from the fingers of his left hand. What the fuck? He twisted his arm a little and saw a rip in his sleeve about six inches down from his shoulder. He poked a finger through the tear in the fabric and felt a wet, sticky gouge in his arm. "Guess I got winged a little. It's nothing," said John. Vanderbilt gave him a narrow look and stuck two fingers in his mouth and gave sharp whistle. He flagged a paramedic over. "Take a look at his arm," said Vanderbilt to the medic. To John, he said, "The short version. Canine units are en route." John gave him a hard glare. This morning the ass had basically accused him of getting Stuart killed, now the guy was behaving almost human, even bordering on helpful. Maybe he ought to

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 176

threaten to punch the guy out more often. John took a deep breath and gave him the highly edited version of the past hour, while the paramedic slit his shirt sleeve open and did a bandage job. John saw a second Stokes basket containing Fiona pass behind Vanderbilt. Todd was one of the people carrying it. "Back in ten," called Todd as the entourage headed toward the second ambulance. John nodded acknowledgement. By the time Todd returned, portable lighting was being set up and crime scene tape was being strung. Canine units were starting into the woods to search for the third man, but without a clean reference sample, chances for success were slim. John leaned against a tree at the edge of the clearing. He stared at the night sky. Could it have gone much worse? The phrase "cluster fuck" just didn't seem adequate. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, his arm was beginning to throb. A small army of law enforcement personnel was milling through the area. The bodies of the two dead demonists were being pronounced and readied for transport, evidence was being systematically gathered and cataloged by the FBI, and John let them. This was over. No one outside of his own people would believe the full explanation, so he let Vanderbilt take charge. He could see Rich talking to one of the local PD near the bench where Fiona had been tied down. Todd came toward John. "Everything under control here, or at least as under control as it's likely to get at the moment?" asked Todd. "Yeah, I figure it will keep the FBI happy to feel like they're cleaning up the mess. God... any clue which hospital they took Evan and Fiona to?" John rested his head back against the tree behind him. "Howard University Hospital. It's only a couple of miles away. Go. Rich and I'll keep an eye on the rest." Todd laid a hand on John's shoulder. "They'll be okay. You good to drive?" He gestured at John's bandaged arm. "Yeah, I'm fine," John replied. Todd gave him a dubious stare. *** Thursday, January 4, 2007 -- 10:50 p.m. At the hospital, John found Cecelia in the waiting room. She was staring out a window into the darkened parking lot. He envied her composure. "Any word?" he asked. "Evan's in surgery. Fiona's stable. What the hell happened to you?" she demanded, looking down at his bandaged arm. Blood was starting to seep through the dressing.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 177

"I guess I got grazed when the bullets were flying. It's nothing," he said. "The paramedics took care of it." "Uh-huh. Damn, John, why didn't you tell me that you'd been hit, too?" she chided him. "Jesus, compared to Evan..." "And it looks like you've soaked through the bandages. Come on. I have a buddy in the ER. He'll have a look at it." She practically dragged him down the hallway. In the emergency room, John called Evan's sister Brigid. She said she would be there as soon as she could and would call their parents on the way. John remembered that Evan had said the rest of his family lived on the opposite coast. Arm rebandaged, John let Cecelia guide him back to the waiting room. He felt sort of lightheaded and his arm ached, but he refused pain killers. The last thing he needed at the moment was to have to deal with having his shields screwed up in a busy hospital. He sat on one of the stereotypical vinyl sofas, eyes closed. Cecelia cornered a nurse to check on Fiona's status. The SIS doctor also told John she had called Fiona's ex-husband, who happened to be in Fiji at the moment, and notified him of Fiona's condition. Cecelia mused aloud on why the guy was still listed as Fiona's emergency contact. "Is she doing okay?" John asked, as Cecelia touched his hand. "I'm sorry. You must think I'm a bastard for not paying more attention to her condition." Cecelia sat down beside him and put an arm around his shoulders. "She's stable, heavily sedated, and being cared for. She's not in any serious danger now. You're entitled to be distracted. Evan was injured far worse," she consoled him. *** Thursday, January 4, 2007 -- 11:45 p.m. John was slouched on one of the sofas in the waiting room, in anguish, waiting for news. He saw Brigid come in. It had to be Brigid. She so closely resembled Evan, it nearly took his breath away. The same features, same green eyes and curly hair. John stumbled to his feet. She was wearing jeans and a winter coat. A long swath of fabric draped from one shoulder diagonally across her body and around her back up into a large brass ring. In the fabric, John could see an infant nestled against her. "Brigid?" John said, standing up. She looked at him and blinked a little in what must have been shock. He suddenly realized he must look like an advertisement for a horror movie. His clothes splattered with blood, both Evan's and his own.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 178

"I'm John Benchley," he said. "I wish this wasn't the reason for our meeting." She gave him a sort of one armed hug, avoiding squishing the baby between them. He was surprised. "Have you heard anything?" Brigid asked. "No." "He's... still alive... I would know... if he wasn't," she said. John nodded. He drew a deep, shuddering breath. Oh, God, he didn't even want to consider that idea. Brigid continued, "I called my parents. They're going to catch the first available flight." "Good...Um... This is Dr. Cecelia Thomas. She's part of SIS," John introduced his staff doctor. *** "When the surgeons are done, they'll come tell us," Cecelia said. She had been on the opposite end of this agonized wait hundreds of times. She glanced at John. His face was almost deathly pale, and she wondered for the tenth time just how much blood he'd actually lost. "Come sit down again. It's probably going to be a while yet." She guided him back toward the sofa. He sat dejectedly, head bowed forward and hands between his knees, looking absolutely lost. Finally, when Cecelia couldn't stand it any longer, she put an arm around his shoulders and pulled his head to her shoulder. "Sometimes no news is a good thing," she said softly. His breath hitched, and she thought he was going to cry. He didn't, but he did close his eyes and sag into her embrace. *** Friday, January 5, 2007 -- 1 a.m. When Rich and Todd eventually made it to the hospital, they gave John a rundown of the aftermath and clean up of the scene. "We never did find the third guy, but we did ID the other two. Fiona was on the right track. They were both from the frat. We're heading in that direction, but thought we'd stop here first," said Rich. "Any word?" "Not yet," said John. "Get some of the FBI people to help. Feel very free to let them take credit. The further this stays away from reality, the better off we'll all be." "Got it," said Rich, and he departed along with Todd. The surgeon came out. "Are you waiting for news about Evan Garrett?" he asked. John bolted to his feet unsteadily, and Cecelia reached out a hand to support him.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 179

"Is he...?" John couldn't bear to complete the sentence. "He's alive. He's being sent to ICU. We removed the bullet. There was a moderate amount of damage to his lung, and he lost a very large amount of blood. We gave him six units. But he's in guarded condition. I think the prognosis is good," explained the surgeon. "Can we see him?" asked Brigid, coming to stand beside John. "Shortly. Please be aware if he's conscious, he's probably not going to be even remotely coherent, between the anesthesia and the pain medication." "Thank you," said Brigid. *** In the ICU, John gazed at Evan. He was connected to more than a dozen lines and tubes. His dark lashes were silhouetted on skin far too pale. Brigid moved to the bedside and took his hand. She leaned carefully over the railing of the bed and kissed his forehead. Her fingers trailed down the side of his face. John felt frozen. He wanted to touch Evan, hold him, kiss him... But if he did, John knew he was going to break down. He looked at the nurses and staff flowing through the ICU. He wasn't sure if he could handle the attention it tended to bring when two men showed affection. Brigid obviously cared very deeply for her brother. How would she react if she thought Evan was involved with him? Brigid was murmuring soft words to her brother. They had a certain rhythm. A prayer? he wondered. Or maybe it was a spell, given their religion. *** Brigid looked across the bed at John, seeing his rigid stance. The man radiated anguish, and she felt so sorry for him. Evan had told her bits and pieces about how many people John had lost in his life. She walked around the bed and stood in front of him. Here he was, mentally shredding himself over nearly losing yet another person. "John. It's okay. Evan told me about the two of you. I couldn't care less. Actually, let me rephrase that. Evan cares about you. And as far as I'm concerned, that's a good thing. Touch him, let him know you're here." She drew a stool toward the bed and pushed him down onto it. "I'll be back in a little while. I need to go make some calls and nurse Maeve." She gestured at the baby that was starting to protest in the sling, then she walked out of the ICU cubicle. *** Alone with Evan, John finally felt perhaps he had it together enough to touch Evan. He reached carefully over the railing and laid his hand on Evan's. Evan's fingers were cool to the touch.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 180

"Evan...We stopped them. Two are dead, one got away. Fiona's gonna be okay. Cecelia said she's stable. Just has to detox from the drugs. Just like me," John said. There was a faint stirring from Evan. He made a restless moan of pain. John squeezed Evan's hand. "Easy. You're in the hospital. They removed the bullet." John couldn't hold back the tears any longer, they were sliding down his face. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..." John leaned his forehead on the railing and he sobbed, clutching Evan's hand. "You're a mess..." whispered Evan hoarsely. John's head jerked up. Evan was looking at him, a foggy, only semi-focused gaze. John wiped his face with his sleeve. "Said Fiona's okay?" Evan asked. "Yeah. That's what they told me. Cecelia shot her full of drugs to counteract that same stuff that I got hit with. She's here in the hospital, somewhere. I think Cecelia went off to check on her." "Good. You're covered in blood." "Yeah, well..." John trailed off. "You're hurt." Evan made a gesture toward the bandage on John's arm. "Not much. I caught one in the arm. Bad graze, not much more. Brigid's here. She brought her baby with her. Your parents are supposedly on a plane heading this way..." John's breath hitched and felt like he was babbling, anything to keep from breaking down again. "Hurts like hell..." mumbled Evan. "Should I try to flag one of the nurses?" "No... Just stay." Evan blinked slowly. John could tell Evan was fighting the fact the narcotics had dissolved his shielding. John squeezed Evan's fingers a little, wishing he could actually hold his lover. Evan's sluggish, drugged mind brushed across John's, and John dropped all his own shielding, trying to offer Evan whatever comfort he could. Hugging Evan's hand to his chest, John rubbed Evan's knuckles. Evan's grip on consciousness was fading, and he slowly sank back into grayness. John made a silent prayer to a deity he wasn't sure he believed in. *** Friday, January 5, 2007 -- 3 a.m. In the wee hours of the early morning, Cecelia came to the ICU. She saw Brigid was changing her daughter's diaper on the floor. John was still sitting on the stool at Evan's bedside, watching him sleep. John looked very much worse for wear. "How's Fiona?" he asked. "I'm sorry I'm not paying more attention to her condition."

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 181

"Stop worrying. She's okay. They're going to keep her another twenty-four hours for observation, but she's fine, even sort of lucid. Just sore, bruised, embarrassed as all hell that she was buck naked. You need a shower, some clean clothes, and some sleep. And I'm not taking no for an answer," ordered Cecelia. "She's right, you need some rest. He's stable. My parents should be here in a few hours. Go home," Brigid said. John closed his eyes for a moment and huffed out a long breath. He let Cecelia lead him out of the building. *** Back at SIS, John stood in the shower, watching the water turn brown-red as it washed away a mixture of Evan's blood and his own. Cecelia was waiting for him in his den. She had emphatically told him that she didn't trust him not to pass out in the shower. And if she still heard the shower running in twenty minutes, she intended to come fish him out. It wasn't like she hadn't seen him naked, patched him up, sewed him back together, and sat at his side when he'd been close to death. The exhaustion was catching up to him. His arm hurt, his eyes burned, and he still felt like he'd been emotionally ripped inside out. The one person he had truly let into his life of late had nearly died in his arms. He sank to the floor of the shower, arms wrapped around his knees, shaking. It took him a number of minutes to pull himself back together enough to stand up and turn off the shower. In the bedroom, he fumbled his way into getting dressed. At some point, he looked up and saw Cecelia in the doorway. She gave him a look of concern, then walked away. She came back in a few minutes. She put a bottle of water and a protein bar in his hand and shooed him down toward her lab so she could rebandage his arm. He sat on the edge of the hospital bed in the lab, almost incoherent with exhaustion, as she applied gauze and tape. Her cell phone rang "Dr. Thomas," she answered. John couldn't hear the other side of the conversation. "Good... Any problems... Good... I'll bring him back in a little while." And she hung up. "Who was that?" he asked. "Brigid. Their parents are on the plane and heading this way. Evan's still stable. So don't get wound up. Lie down. Close your eyes and I'll wake you in a few hours." *** Exhaustive interviews of the members of the Order of Phlegethon fraternity by Todd, Rich, and eight FBI agents produced forty-one calls to family attorneys and very little else. It was a stone wall of plausible denial.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 182

It also generated a seven a.m. phone call from a senator to the Director of SIS, indicating that unless there was an ironclad case against a specific member of the fraternity, he was to exercise extreme discretion on any further inquiries. This, of course, roughly translated to shut up and back the hell off. *** Friday, January 5, 2007 -- 8 a.m. In the ICU, John walked slowly toward Evan's bay. An older woman with a long, graying braid hanging down her back sat on the stool beside the bed. One of her hands held Evan's, the other was on his chest. A tall, angular man stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders. The older man had broad shoulders, a slender build, and long fingers. John decided the man had to be Evan's father. The man looked back over his shoulder at John as John drew close. He gently squeezed his hand on his wife's shoulder and she jerked slightly as her attention to Evan was broken. "I'm John Benchley," he said. "I run SIS." He held out a hand to them. The man shook it. "Mike Garrett, and this is Helena," said the man. John nodded. "Did you catch the people who did this?" asked Helena. "Um, yes. All but one... are dead." "Good. I know it's a nasty thing to say, but I'm not sorry." "You shouldn't be. They killed quite a number of people," John admitted. "SIS people?" "Yes and no. It's complicated. One of our people died due to some things these people did before the holidays. And besides Evan, one of my female team members was injured. She's in another part of the hospital currently. She'll be okay. I really can't tell you much more than that." Talking about it, even obliquely, twisted John's gut in guilt and misery. "That's all right. I know there's security issue stuff," replied Helena. "You were shot, too?" she said, her eyes dropping to the sling that supported his arm. Cecelia had bullied him into using it, claiming that he needed to baby it for at least a couple of days so it didn't start bleeding again. "It's nothing much," he replied. She stood up and reached out a hand to touch the side of John's face. He flinched slightly. Her fingers were warm, almost hot, and he felt the tightly leashed control of a psi skim across the surface of his mind. His mouth dropped open a little as he realized she was a healer. It made a certain amount of sense; psi Talents seemed to run in families.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 183

"Brigid told us that you and Evan are... involved," said Helena. A slight smile curved her lips. John wondered momentarily if the concept of her son caring for another man angered her, but he felt no animosity in her touch. "I'm glad he's found someone. He needs someone in his life, and I think maybe you do, too." It was a simple and accepting statement, and John found himself astounded by the warmth of her words.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 184

Epilogue The SIS H2 pulled up in front of a small brick house in the suburbs of Baltimore. Evan saw John glance in his direction. Evan was sitting in the passenger seat, checking the GPS. He'd only been back at work for a couple of weeks since his gunshot wound, and most of those days had been spent doing paperwork. This was his first time back in the field. They were following up a report that an enormous, unknown animal had attacked a UPS driver. This was where the driver reportedly lived. It was a routine inquiry that would likely turn up nothing extraordinary. "Maybe you should just hang out in the car. This won't take long," suggested John. Evan glared at him. "I'm fit for duty. The hospital cleared me and Cecelia cleared me. I am not going to let you treat me like I'm made of glass," Evan said. He felt a flash of anger blended with fear from John. He understood, really he did, but it didn't make John's overprotective tendencies any easier to deal with. Evan leaned across the console between the front seats and grabbed the front of John's jacket with both hands. He kissed his lover hard enough to bang their teeth together. When Evan pulled back, he whispered, "Get over it and let me do my job." John gave him a long, searching look. "You proved you're not bulletproof..." he said softly. "Neither are you," replied Evan.

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 185

Acknowledgements -- Susan & Lee Wingo, Jarrod & Antonia Sergi

And Hell Itself Breathes Out - 186