The Light Who Shines (20 page)

Bluebell Kildare: May 29, 2022, Red Ages

It’s a comfortable seventy-four degrees with a mild breeze
blowing and the sun shining as I head to the office. Before I pull away from
the curb, I take a moment to appreciate the mist lazily hanging on the green
mountain peaks despite the vivid blue sky.

As I head down the main thoroughfare in Rowan Park toward
Windsor Avenue, the traffic slows to a snail’s pace. I’m stuck behind a large,
obnoxiously turquoise truck. I unroll my window and crane my neck, but I can’t
see beyond the wide bumper in front of me. Traffic coming from the other
direction is sparse, but it’s whizzing past at a normal pace. I hear a slight
din in the distance, but the source remains obscured.

When I spot a right turn coming up, my foot starts
anticipating the opportunity to use a little gas. Maybe I can go down a street
or two to avoid the hang-up. Finally I reach the corner and take a quick right.
I sail free down the entire block then take an easy left. Sure enough, I’m able
to zip past the last few blocks to Windsor Avenue. When I get to the stop sign
at the corner, I look to the left and see cars packed tight as sardines past
Windsor Avenue, so I decide to stay on the road less traveled and continue to
skirt the traffic. What in the world is going on?

A block to the right of the main thoroughfare, I continue on
about half a mile, thinking to cut over at National Street. But suddenly I see
the source of the traffic jam. Right in front of Mr. and Mrs. Glenwood’s
mansion, there’s a slew of Dilectus Deo in all their yellow-robed glory,
shouting threats while simultaneously quoting the Bible. Criminy! They’re
everywhere! How many breedists are in this city?

It looks like the main protest is in front of the Glenwood
Mansion, and people are congregating on the sidewalk and all through the
street, completely blocking traffic. They must be a thousand strong! The throng
is so large that people have milled down to the east side of the block, hanging
in clusters.

As I approach the end of the block and am about to make
another right to further avoid the crowd, I hear some shouting that seems to be
coming from behind a couple of hawthorn bushes close to the corner. I think
nothing of it until I hear a thud followed by a very distinct moan. Holy smokes!
Someone’s getting beaten up over there!

I stop my car and flip open my chimerator. I perform a quick
chant to contact Jack, and when his face shows up on the pearly surface, I say,
“I’m in front of the Glenwood’s. Someone’s getting beaten up behind a bush at
the Dilectus Deo protest. I’m going in, so please send back-up and an
ambulance.” I see his brows scrunch up, then I flip the ring closed before he
can deter me.

As soon as I jump out of the car, Varg jumps in the front
seat and hurls himself through the open window after me. I still hear the sickening
thuds, the obvious sounds of flesh impacting flesh, as I race across the lawn.
When I round the corner, I see three men surrounding a figure on the ground,
one crouched over with his fist raised.

I pull out my Glock and yell in my loudest and most
authoritative voice, “Hands in the air! I’m with the Supernatural Investigation
Bureau and you are under arrest!”

All three heads spin and gawk at me simultaneously. One man freezes
and the other two run. Varg takes off, chasing one of the men, and after about thirty
feet I see him fly through the air and jump right on the man’s back, forcing
him down with the strength of the impact. The man wriggles and struggles, yelling
and crying in fear until Varg clamps his jaw loosely around the man’s neck with
his forepaws on the man’s shoulder blades. The man mercifully shuts up and
stills. A wise choice, I’m sure.

We’ve gathered the attention of a few protestors on the
outer edges of the street, and from them I sense a bewildered curiosity. The
din is so loud and the crowd is so thick and agitated that the main part of the
protest goes on unaffected.

What I feel from them is a massive wall, huge and dense,
full of anger, hate, and fear. I remember that Jack told me the time and
location of the Gala was confidential. Now I know why. Clearly the Dilectus Deo
would take issue with a large-scale transfer of magical items. While I’m taking
this in, I busily cuff the first guy and drag him toward the metal railing on
the mansion’s front stoop.

Once I have him secured, I run toward the victim. He’s a
young man, about my age or slightly younger, wearing jeans and a jersey
t-shirt. His face is bloody, and he’s curled up on the ground in fetal position,
breathing noisily. As I lean over him I see that both his eyebrows are bright
pink. Assuming that he is Gifted and not just in an attention-seeking stage, I
feel for his magic. It’s just under the surface, and I can tell that it is a gift
relating to communication, but I can’t say exactly what.

I try to engage him by saying, “An ambulance is on the way.
Where are you hurt?”

He starts to talk, but it turns into a cough and I see blood
speckles form on his lips. Cripes!

I lean over and say, “No, don’t talk. You’re injured too badly.
Just stay still, and we’ll get some help.”

I rush to my car and grab Varg’s blanket in the back seat. I
gently lay it over the man, and at that moment Jeffrey, the Glenwoods’ butler,
joins my side.

Jeffrey says, “Oh my God. Is he going to be okay?”

I snap at Jeffrey. “Don’t look to God to see if he’ll be
okay. It’s so-called men of God who put him here.” I take a deep breath and
finish in a more reasonable tone. “I’m sorry, Jeffrey. I called Jack, and an ambulance
is on the way.”

Jeffrey looks sheepish and says, “I called the police and an
ambulance as soon as it started, so there may be two coming.”

“Jeffrey, do you have any rope?” I ask as I gesture to where
Varg is holding on to the second perpetrator.

Jeffrey stammers, “Oh, right! Of course!” He rushes in the
side entrance. As I watch him go, I see two pairs of eyes staring out from
behind the blinds next to the front door. Mr. and Mrs. Glenwood, I assume.

A few minutes later Jeffrey appears with a length of rope. I
use it to tie the hands and feet of the second perpetrator and anchor him to a
tall ash tree in the yard. As soon as Varg lets go of the man’s neck, the man
starts spitting out a string of cuss words that would make Maud roll over in
the grave plot she hasn’t purchased yet. I ignore how much the man of God hates
me and how the Beloved of God wants to see me cut into tiny pieces with a dull,
rusty serrated knife because as I truss him up the first ambulance arrives.

I run over to the ambulance where Jeffrey is already giving
the medics the scoop. It seems Jeffrey was able to get a view of the whole
thing from the office window.

Varg is staring avidly at the mass of people shouting in the
street with a low growl rumbling from his chest. I can see he feels cheated because
one man got away. I feel cheated as well. The crowd is a sea of identical yellow
robes, and there is no way I could find the third perpetrator on my own. I look
at Varg, and Varg looks at me.

I prompt, “Varg, where’s the third guy?”

Varg takes off in a flash and runs into the crowd, breaking
up the masses, leaving me a narrow wedge of space through which to follow him. We
move quickly through the crowd until one man grabs on to my arm and yells, “Get
out of here, Aberration!”

Before I have a chance to think, my gun is in my hand, but
it’s not necessary. Varg spins around and lunges savagely at the man. The man
lets go as he backs away from Varg, and we immediately take up the chase again.

Our sprint through the crush is causing even more of a
ruckus as people start yelling obscenities, threats, and epithets at our trail.
Our perpetrator must know we’re after him, because I see a wave of yellow gowns
moving out of the way of one gown in particular as he runs ahead of us. I catch
a glimpse of his head, but all I see is a mass of thick, dark hair. We have
pushed and shoved our way through about two-thirds of the crowd by now and are
nearing the far end of the block when Varg gets an opening and darts between
some legs to grab on to the man’s ankle.

The man goes down face first, and Varg stands on his prey
with forepaws on his back and a vicious growl in his ear. The man screams, “Get
him off! Get him off!”

I pull my gun out and aim it at the man. I hear someone near
the edge of the circle surrounding me shout, “She’s an Aberrant!”

Suddenly, I feel the full force of hate, anger, and fear of
this crowd center on me, and it doesn’t take a genius to see this is about to
get even uglier.

I try to diffuse the crowd by yelling, “I’m with the Supernatural
Investigation Bureau, and this man is under arrest for beating an innocent
bystander!”

Somehow this title does not garner the degree of respect I’d
hoped it would, and the angry voices escalate. I hear a woman shouting, “She’s
probably lying!”

Voices start to get angrier and the words get uglier.

“She’s a freak!”

“One of the unnaturals has one of God’s Beloved!”

This last statement raises the mob madness to an
unprecedented level. I sense violent intentions from dozens of those in the
circle around us, which are reinforced by the first soft mutterings of “Get
her!” and “Bring her down!”

The circle starts to tighten, and I move my gun off the man
now, relying on Varg to secure him. Instead I point it at the crowd.

I spin in a small circle, looking each yellow robed figure
in the eye with a great deal of boldness. “Step back!” I yell. “This is a
matter for the law!”

They aren’t listening, and the circle is tightening. I
glance back at Varg and see him growing before my eyes. He stands with his head
low and his hackles raised from head to tail, claiming his prey but ready to
pounce on the crowd if need be.

I hope the mob backs off for its own sake because Varg is
huge! Everyone’s eyes are on me, so I don’t know if they notice him. Just as
I’m about to start shooting at the ground near the feet of the crowd to push
the circle back, he raises his muzzle and starts howling eerily with the sound
echoing off the large mansions lining the street. Everyone’s eyes swivel to him,
and I hear a collective gasp from the horde.

Just then I see a dark blur fly over the heads of those
nearest me and land in the center of the circle. It’s Jack. He pulls out his
sword and starts whirling it around the crowd in a dizzying display, driving it
back at all points of the circle and widening the space around us. Some of the
anger dissipates, turning to fear and frustration. Jack moves faster than their
eyes can see, and they know his sword will cut indiscriminately. Jack doesn’t
waste time with announcements or words; he simply continues to widen the circle
by stepping nearer and nearer to the crowd as he extends his sword its full
reach, daring anyone to encroach on the circle of death he’s created.

Soon I hear shouts of “Police! Police!” followed by a voice
over a loudspeaker saying, “This protest is over. Disperse or be arrested!”

A large percentage of the crowd starts to break up
immediately, but I see a few hateful eyes pinned on me that are more reluctant
to leave than others.

Ernesto pushes through the thinning mass and cuffs the man
under Varg’s feet. I say, “Ernesto, you should question Jeffrey at the Glenwood
Mansion. He saw that man and the two others who I’ve already secured attack the
victim.”

Ernesto says, “I certainly will, Señorita. You got yourself
in quite a tangle today! I’m glad it came out okay.”

I smile gratefully. Then with a whistle I call Varg over to
me since he seems reluctant to give up his final prize. The police are out in full
force now, moving people down the street and waving them back to their cars. With
satisfaction, I watch all three men get shoved into S.I.B. cars.

Not until the entire area is clear does Jack put down his
sword and turn to me. He asks with daggers in his eyes that I know are meant
for others, “Did anyone hurt you?”

I shake my head and reply, “One man grabbed my arm, but Varg
scared him off.”

Jack’s eyes flick to Varg and then back to my face. He says
in a grim tone, “You may not have been hurt, but another minute or two and you
could have been dead.”

I lift up my chin and respond steadily, “All in the line of
duty, Jack. I did what was right, and if you know me at all you should never expect
less.”

I holster my gun and walk, head held high, back to my car
with Varg trailing behind me and Jack watching my back.

Bluebell Kildare: May 29, 2022, Red Ages

I enter the office accompanied by a feeling of tremendous relief.
Rubalia, who’s intently gazing at her computer screen, pulls her eyes away to
greet me. “Good morning, Blue,” she says. She flicks her eyes downward. “I see
you still have the beast with you.”

I’m slightly shocked it’s still morning since I feel wrung
out already. However, I reply with an understated calm, “Good morning, Rubalia.
I still work in homicides and it’s still dangerous. He saved my life yet again
this morning. Do you have any messages for me?”

Rubalia raises her eyebrows doubtfully and responds, “I
don’t have messages, but I do have some documents that came through.” She stands
and hands a few sheets of paper over the counter while glaring at Varg. Varg
looks innocently back at her, completely unfazed.

“Thank you,” I say as I sift through the documents. “Could
you get me the name and number for the president of the local Rotary Club,
please?”

Rubalia says, “Sure. I’ll bring it right in.”

“Is Jack in yet?”

Rubalia’s eyes turn troubled and glance down the hall. “Yes.
He must have had a hard night. I don’t think he slept at home because he was here
running the shower when I arrived. Then both he and Ernesto rushed out of here
like bats out of the Eternal Fire. Just a few minutes ago Jack comes back and
Ernesto brings three guys up the back way in cuffs to the interrogation rooms.
They’re being questioned now.”

“Hmm,” I respond. “Please tell him I’m writing up a report
and I’m here if he needs me.” Those are the words that come out of my mouth,
but the words running around in my head are quite different. Did he spend the
night in some other woman’s arms since he clearly had no interest in mine?
Sabrina at the Gala seemed eager for a piece of him! A streak of jealousy runs
through me that’s impossible not to recognize. As I walk to my office, I glare
down the hall toward Jack’s office, wishing my glare could penetrate the door
and set something on fire.

I sit down at my desk and look around my comforting office. Varg
stretches out by the floor-to-ceiling window, apparently enjoying the view. It
is not as grand as Jack’s, of course, since it‘s a much smaller office, but
it’s tastefully furnished like the rest of the unit and brightened by a few
personal possessions. I love my lush green fern the most. It sits in the corner
next to the window, thriving in the cool shade of the air-conditioned room. I splurged
on it for my one year work anniversary. It makes me feel somehow connected to
this place, and I’m proud I’ve kept it alive and flourishing.

I focus my thoughts and type out a report about today’s mob
incident. Additional paperwork is required for every Dilectus Deo incident.
They aren’t officially considered a cult, but they are on our watch list. A separate
form must be completed to document hate crimes against the magically Gifted. I
have to include the nature of their magical gift and what their mark is. Unfortunately,
I don’t have all the information yet, so I’ll have to complete an addendum report
later. At this point I don’t even know the victim’s name. The extra work is no
hardship because I really want to visit him in the hospital anyway to make sure
he’s okay. He obviously had internal bleeding, so he could be severely injured.
When I’m done, I zap the paperwork to Rubalia and Jack in an email for them to
review and route as necessary. Then I take a minute to let my anger at the
Dilectus Deo seethe.

Finally, after internally raging long enough to get myself
worked up and then calmed down again, I look at the profile sheets for the
owners of the Meteor Shockwave. Leroy Zevin looks defiantly at the camera in a
photo that’s obviously from a previous arrest. He has a record of breaking and
entering, home invasions, and battery, and he’s been in and out of prison a
number of times. Hector Martinez has some speeding tickets and a juvenile
record that is closed, but nothing notable for the last twenty years. Agnes
Zadwaski only has a driver’s license photo and no record at all besides one
ticket for expired registration on another car she owns.

I dial up Gambino.

“Gambino,” he answers with a little more roughness than
usual.

“Hola, this is Blue. What have you got on the three car
owners?”

Gambino lets out a sigh of frustration that is clearly
audible through the line. “The bartender doesn’t know any of the three, and
every one of them has an alibi.”

I echo his sigh with one of my own. “Let me think about it,
Gambino. I’ll call you back.”

I stare at the three sheets for a moment, particularly at
Agnes’ sheet because something isn’t sitting right with me. Finally, I click on
my intercom and buzz Rubalia. “Rubalia, can you come in here for a moment? I
want to run something by you.”

Rubalia enters, and I gesture her to the chair opposite my
desk. “Rubalia. I’m going to tell you about a car, and I want you to guess if
the owner is a male or a female.”

Rubalia says, “Sure,” and by the set of her shoulders, I can
see she takes the question seriously.

“Okay,” I say. “A 1968 Meteor Shockwave in the color pewter
green.”

Rubalia lifts up her chin and answers confidently, “A man,
of course.”

“Why do you say that?”

She explains, “First of all, it’s old as dirt and would cost
too much to repair if you couldn’t do it yourself. Sad to say, but there aren’t
that many women who know how to fix a car, except for my second cousin Jovita
Glover.” Rubalia pulls her glittering glasses down to the tip of her nose and
gives me a look through them. “She can make a junkyard car purr like a
pussycat, but that girl is talented and rare!” Then she settles back further in
the chair, though never letting her back actually touch its back. I’m not sure
I’ve ever seen Rubalia touch the back of a chair.

“Second of all,” she continues, “a Meteor Shockwave that is gray-green
has ‘man’ written all over it. Now, if it were repainted red I would think
twice. But not only is the inside big and uncomfortable with that long bench
seat in front that you have to slide across, but what woman wants her complexion
to be seen next to a gray-green color? It is a man’s car, through and through.”

“I totally agree with you, Rubalia.” I hand her Agnes’
sheet. “Can you find out if Agnes Zadwaski has a husband or another man living
at the house?”

Rubalia nods. “I sure will.” She stands and hands me a slip
of paper. “And here’s the information on the Rotary Club president and vice
president. The president is on vacation right now, so you will have to call the
vice president.”

I watch Rubalia walk out gracefully in her slate gray skirt
suit, closing the door gently behind her. I sure wish I had her wardrobe. Maybe
then Jack wouldn’t have been so cold to me last night and possibly spent the
night in some other woman’s arms.

”Ugh!” I slam my hand down on the desk. He can have all the
women he wants. He can have an orgy of women if he wants! What’s it to me?

I practically injure my fingers punching in the phone number
for the Rotary Club vice president while scanning the paper. The President is
Victor Edmundovich, the mayor. How interesting!

“Dunfield Realty,” a young, bored-sounding female voice
answers.

“This is Inspector Kildare calling for Sigmund Dunfield. Is
he available?”

“Hold, please,” the voice says, sounding quite a bit sharper
now that I’ve announced myself.

After a minute the phone picks up again and I hear, “Sigmund
Dunfield here. Can I help you?”

“Hello, Mr. Dunfield. This is Inspector Bluebell Kildare
from the Supernatural Investigation Bureau. Do you have time for a few
questions?”

Dunfield replies in a professional voice, “Of course! How
can I be of assistance?”

“I understand the Rotary Club sponsored the Sun Flare
Celebration Fireworks and Magic Show this year.”

Dunfield answers enthusiastically, obviously eager to share
information on his philanthropic work. “Yes, we did. We do every year, as a
matter of fact. Not just the Fireworks and Magic Show, though We sponsor the
entire celebration. The city picks up the tab, of course, but we do all the
organization of the vendors, entertainment, and local talent.”

Hmm, I wonder if they get kickbacks from the vendors they select.
Not my problem, but I wouldn’t be surprised. “That sounds like a lot of work!”

He boasts, “It certainly is, but we feel it’s part of our
civic duty. We divide and conquer, with a different Rotary member taking the lead
on the different events that take place.”

“Who’s the lead for the Fireworks and Magic Show?”

Dunfield answers easily, “Oh, that’s Fire Department Chief
Gerald Mack, since of course fire is his specialty, and he needs to be involved
from a safety perspective anyway.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Dunfield. You certainly do provide a
great service to the city with your work.”

“You’re very welcome Inspector Kildare. But may I ask what
this questioning is about?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Dunfield. I’m not at liberty to say as it is
part of an ongoing investigation. However, I can tell you that right now I am
just doing a little background research.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I hope I was helpful.” Mr. Dunfield says,
a salesman to the end.

“I really appreciate your assistance,” I say, purposefully
avoiding his indirect question.

When I hang up, Rubalia knocks and enters. She hands me a
new profile sheet with the photo of a ruddy-looking man in his fifties with a receding
hairline and sagging, weak blue eyes.

Rubalia says, “Paul Zadwaski is her brother and listed her
address as his place of residence at his last arrest. He looks like a sorry
man. No other names come up under that address.”

I beam at her and feel like things are truly looking up now.
“Thank you so much, Rubalia! You are a goddess of research!” Rubalia smiles
back and starts to close the door.

“Wait. Rubalia?”

Rubalia opens the door wide again with an expression
denoting boundless patience. Goodness knows she needs it with us.

“Can you do a little side research? Nothing urgent, but I’d
like to know who is responsible for checking on suspected city corruption.
Please keep it on the down-low as I just have a suspicion, nothing concrete.”

Rubalia gives me an ear-to-ear grin and her eyes get very
mischievous. “I’d be more than happy to.”

I feel blessed to be the recipient of true glee from Rubalia,
so I give her a pure, beaming smile right back. “No rush, Rubalia. No rush.”

She closes the door softly and I read the sheet she just
handed me. Paul Zadwaski, age fifty-four, currently has a DUI and a suspended license.
He was driving the Shockwave when he was arrested for drunk driving. This is
our guy. I can feel it.

I dial Detective Tony Gambino using normal pressure on the
keypads this time. “Gambino!” I say excitedly when he answers, “I think I’ve
found our man. Agnes has a brother, Paul Zadwaski, who has a DUI and a
suspended license. He was driving the car when he was arrested for the DUI, and
he listed her address as his own.”

Gambino swears, “God damn it! I told my detective to give me
everyone at the addresses where the cars were registered. I should have known
he didn’t do it when they came back with only three sheets!”

I disregard this, as his internal issues are not my problem.
“Gambino, I’d like to be there for the questioning. Can we meet at Agnes’ house
in an hour?”

“Sure thing,” he says. See you there.”

I quickly add, “Hey Gambino, by the way, I have a new police
dog companion.”

Gambino laughs. “Nice one,” he says and then hangs up.

I look at the phone in my hand. What, he doesn’t think a
woman would have a dog? What is the deal?