The Franklin Incident (Philly-Punk) (6 page)

Jack glanced at the photos he’d taken, developed, matted, and framed.  He smiled.

Bruce turned back to the photos.  They were so still, so crisp, so alive.  He could hear the faint organ music and laughter of the children as the carousel horses paraded around; smell the spent gasoline fumes of the fire swallower; and feel the raindrops fall on his head as two lovers kissed in the rain.  “My God, Jack, they’re wonderful.”

* * *

Outside the café, Bruce glanced at Jack, “So how long have you and Katrina been together?”

"Together?"  Jack asked, glancing back towards the coffee shop.  "Nothing's going on."

"Why?  She so wants to birth your babies!”

Jack laughed.  “Unfortunately I’m spoken for these days.”

“Really?  Who’s the lucky girl?”

“Her name is Rachel.  She’s an attorney.”

“A
hot
lawyer?”

“Very.”

“Excellent,” Bruce grinned.  “But if things don’t work out, you shouldn’t miss out on Katrina.  She’s quite the catch!”

“We went out a few times before but there just wasn’t any—“

“Sex?”

“—spark!”

“Jack, you create sparks.”

“It wasn’t right for us.”

“Well,” Bruce said, clapping his hand on Jack's back.  “You’ve been a busy boy!”

“I’ve been living my life, Bruce."

Bruce smiled at that thought.  Jack had never really known how to live... at all, before.  This, of course, made him having something of a life now... difficult. 

And depressing.

Jack stopped and turned towards his friend.  "Okay, cut the bullshit and tell me really why you're here a day early?”

Chapter Three

On a street full of row homes, porches littered with battered tricycles, paint-peeling barbeques, and rusty lawn furniture, Agent Karen Webster knocked on the front door of a bright blue house.  She had the rusty screen door open, her body a dark shape through the dirty screen.  Karen had picked clothes for her first day in the field that she thought were smart, professional (a white silk shirt, a black vest that had these great silver buttons, and a pair of matching slacks), and yet, still, sexy.  She thought she looked like a banker.  Karen was well over six feet tall, long and slender.  Her hair was as black as the devil’s heart.  No one was going to mistake her for a banker.

According to the files, she was knocking on the door of one Simon Fort, 28 years old and a Claremont native.  It didn’t say much else; it didn’t even say what he could do.  But she didn’t need a file to see that Simon Fort wasn’t worth her time.  Not showing up at a previously-agreed time and place said enough.

Overhead, the clouds that had been rumbling all morning decided to open up and rain down.  Karen hurried back to the cab that she’d hired at the airport.  Inside, enveloped in warmth and the scent of freshly-peeled oranges, she gave the cabbie her next address.  As the driver headed north by northeast through the city, he put on his music again (something with harps, cymbals, and a dying cat).  Eventually, he stopped at a tall brick building with windows that showed various stained glass designs.  Karen asked him to wait for her again and he nodded.

As she ducked through the door into the apartment building lobby, Karen automatically glanced behind her, surveying the scene.  Bruce was teaching her to do this: to look for inconsistencies, things just a little out of place.  For Bruce, they were good indicators of bad shit about to go down.  They were clues to save lives – others and your own.  At that moment, nothing looked funky; everything was as it should be.

“What are you waiting for, a bus?”

Karen turned around to find a little girl in pigtails and a pink Augusta t-shirt looking at her.  She was adorable, a ball of fire in a cute exterior.  Looking at her made Karen's arms ache to hold the girl, to hug her.

The lobby's walls were lovingly-covered with chalk murals of faraway places and reproductions of famous paintings.  Karen stared in amazement.  “Did you draw all these?”

“No, silly!  There are lots of people who can draw real good.  My mom drew a Mona Lisa.”

“Do you know a woman named Morgan?”

“Do you mean Fey?”

Karen nodded.

The girl lit up with a smile.  “Of course!  She’s one of my bestest friends!”

“Do you know which apartment she lives in?”

Suddenly, the girl was all serious, hands on her hips.  “What’s it to you?”

“I’m a police officer.”  Karen slowly pulled out her ID.  “I need to talk to her.”

“Is she in trouble?”

“Not—”

“She’s a really good person!”

“I’m sure she—”

“She makes my chalk animals talk!”

Words were about to leap off Karen's lips when she stopped them. 
She makes my chalk animals... talk?
  “That’s something I would like to see.”

“Okay.”  The little girl tensed her body and screamed up the stairwell, her voice echoing, “HEY FEY, YOU GOT A VISITOR!”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Fey poured tea into a Claremont Art Museum mug and handed it to Karen.  The herbs and dried fruit set off a burst of smells, all pleasant.  They sat at a round table in a small dining room, a glass ball on a pillow in the center of the table.  Karen took a sip of her tea, finding it just as tasty as it smelled.

Sitting across the table was Morgan ‘Fey’ Conner, a petite young woman in a chair slightly larger than she.  Fey was a splash of color: light peach skin, cobalt blue eyes, pale pink lips, and caramel short hair.  She wore a Persian red print skirt with a crisp white t-shirt.  The room, itself, reflected that dance of colors: the crimson, gold, and tangerine tapestries of all kinds of origins, dark brown bookshelves lined with books that ranged from trashy romance novels to thick tomes on spiritualism, and the antique cherry display case showing off an odd collection of wooden tribal masks.

Fey, the glass ball in front of her swirling in purples and blues, asked, “Are you sure you don’t want me to read your fortune?”

“No, thank you," Karen asked, setting her mug down.  "I would like to talk to you about your abilities.”

And Karen watched in utter fascination as Fey, unconsciously, reached out with unseen hands and 'changed' the frown on a tribal mask to a smile.  Fey smiled nervously.  “Certainly.”

* * *

An hour later, Karen got back into the taxi and gave the driver the final address.  This time, he chose some classical music and Karen settled back into her seat to watch the city pass.  The sun had decided to come out, bringing a strong end-of-a-storm sunlight.  She bathed in its warmth as she let her mind drift.  Fey was more powerful than Karen had imagined.  To be honest, she was probably more powerful than Bruce thought also.

They left the college neighborhoods and headed downtown, the old co-ops giving way to brownstones lining a park that had a big red barn.  The Claremont Zoo.  As they continued, the park changed into curving streets full of outdoor cafes, trendy shops, and men and women in stylish business clothes.

The driver made a left, shot up a busy thoroughfare, and turned right onto Lincoln Avenue in the heart of the shopping district.  Karen watched stores that she loved, a massive multi-storied mall, theaters, horse-drawn carriages, throngs of shoppers, and a castle-like building pass by her window.

Originally from an Ohio farm town, Karen hadn’t set foot in a big city until college.  Even though she now lived outside of Washington DC, she still couldn’t help but be awed by cities.  It brought out the little girl in her.  The excitement of it all.

The sights and sounds that passed had her so enthralled that Karen didn’t even notice the cab that pulled up next to her until the passenger was waving at her.  She looked at the man: in his thirties, sporting bleached blonde hair and a jagged scar over his left eye.  He smiled at Karen.  That smile...  Images suddenly flooded her: the same man with the same smile dressed in Agency-issued sweats that said TRAINER. 
Oh my God!
  “Charlie?”

He grinned at her.

And pulled out a pistol, swiveling it around at her.

“GUN!”  Karen yelled as she threw herself down on the backseat, expecting to hear the roar of gunfire and feel the rain of shattered glass falling down on her.

But there was nothing.

No gunfire.

No shattering glass.

Nothing except for the driver yelling as someone cut him off.

Karen, her own pistol pulled, slowly peered over the door.  Charlie Grossman wasn’t there.  Neither was the cab.  Instead, an older woman drove a green Lexus.

Karen grabbed her cell phone and dialed her husband.  Of course, there was no answer so she decided to dial another.  When the assistant picked up, Karen said, “Director Collins, please.  Tell him it’s Agent Webster.”

“Bruce!”  Director Collins yelled into the phone as he came on.  “What’s the upda—“

“No.  The other Agent Webster.”

“Sorry, Karen.  Is everything okay?”

“Does the local field office know we’re here?”

The cabbie turned left off Lincoln Avenue and onto a street completely swallowed in the shadow of the high rises above it.  It was as if evening had suddenly come for this part of the city, muting all the colors and eerily quieting all of the sounds.

“Good lord, no.”  Collins replied.  “Why?”

“Because I swear I just saw an Agent that trained me in Basic.”

“Who?”

“Charles Grossman.”

Director Collins was suddenly silent.  For a moment, Karen thought that perhaps their connection had been cut.  "Sir?"

He took a breath.  “Agent Webster, are you positive it was Grossman?”

“Yes.  Why?”

“Agent Grossman reportedly died two years ago.”

“What the hell does 'reportedly' mean?”

“It’s classified.”

“Director Collins, what the hell is go—"

“Agent Webster, I know that your husband and I haven’t kept you in the loop about much.  We did that for your own safety since you weren’t field-rated yet.  But I need you to be on top of your game right now.”

The cab passed a delivery truck and the hotel appeared to her right.  Bruce had a safe house inside– one of twelve throughout Claremont.  Karen could instantly see why such a place would appeal to Bruce.  It was definitely old, built at least in the last century.  Bruce had a thing for Claremont’s history.  The first five stories were made of tan blocks with detailed designs of peacocks sculpted into them.

“Director Collins, I always bring my 'A game'.”

She hung up.

A uniformed man crossed under a large metal awning of hundreds of light bulbs to open her door.  “Welcome to The Claremont Hotel.”  Karen paid the driver, stepped out of the cab, and retrieved her luggage from the trunk.  The cab pulled away as she walked into the lobby.

And all thoughts of undead Agents quickly disappeared.

The lobby was carpeted with a football field of repeating ornate designs and vibrant colors.  The pure white marble walls that lined the lobby were decorated with lavish candelabras, bathing the cathedral of a room in yellow light and illuminating a ceiling that stole the show.  It was completely covered in lovingly-rendered frescos of Greek mythology scenes.  The colors were amazing: lush green of the pastoral scenes, deep blue of the seas, and the soft pink of the gods and goddesses depicted.  Surrounding the frescos were gilded patterns and painted bas relieves.  It all took Karen’s breath away as she slowly walked across the lobby.

She instantly knew then why Bruce had chosen this safe house for their stay: the lobby.  He’d chosen it for her. 

I love my husband.

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