Madison Mosby and the Moonmilk Wars Page 15

  “Contessa Morano is in Philadelphia and a man named Cooper owns Baltimore. All of these cities used to belong to Nancy.”

  Madison looked away at the mention of Contessa. She was excited to hear the name again, but said nothing. Greg’s mention of her, further legitimized Contessa in Madison’s mind.

  And as if he could read her thoughts Greg said, “Don’t get blinded by the money, Madison. Your couriers only sell the Moonmilk. We can’t protect the market. And if anyone gets killed in a turf war, they’ll go right back into their holes.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m an old man. I’ve never touched a pilot stone, and the Derringer I keep in my pocket isn’t going to do much of anything.”

  “Know any sorcerers willing to join the new White Union?”

  “That’s going to be a hard sell. They’re all out making real money again. They’re probably not willing to risk their lives to protect a young Rose Widow. No offense. Nancy lured them in with spells and items from some big stash she had squirreled away somewhere. At least that’s what I always heard.”

  Sarah brushed past Greg and got Madison’s attention. “I’m going to go check on the caterers,” she said.

  Madison nodded and waved Greg back into the ballroom.

  “What’s all this then?” asked Hugo, turning away from pleasantries with Veronica Ross. “No keeping secrets, you two.”

  “It’s no secret,” said Madison. “I was waiting to tell everyone at dinner.” She looked over at Sarah, who nodded from the kitchen door. “Which is now. Everyone, dinner is served, if you’ll accompany me to the dining room.”

  What a grand hostess she was. Hugo took her arm and escorted her to the adjacent dining room. Her legs trembled with every step. What was the matter with her? She’d just been in a firefight, and that hadn’t scared her half as much as the situation the couriers were painting. What a bunch of pussies. Couldn’t they keep themselves safe?

  “Tell me, Madison, how are your parents getting along?” Hugo asked.

  Hugo’s pronunciation made Madison feel like a screen idol from the forties. He had such a sophistication about him. She wanted that too—effortless class and elegance. “Mom’s spending the summer in Europe, and Dad is holed up in his log cabin up in the mountains.”

  “So, not a thing’s changed in twenty years.”

  “No.”

  “And your sister, Shelby, still catching the bad guys at the FBI?”

  “I don’t know what she does. I guess so.”

  Hopefully she won’t be catching me, someday, Madison thought. She thought about Shelby aiming a gun at her shouting, “freeze.”

  But it was statements like that, that threw her off balance. It seemed like the couriers knew way more about her than she knew about them.

  ***

  As the salads arrived, Madison tapped on her water glass. The room went quiet. This was her moment and she desperately wanted to make a good first impression with everyone together, and god damn, did she need a drink.

  Later, girl. Later.

  “I want to thank you all for taking time from your businesses to come see me. I know most of you have a lot of fond memories of this place. And if my grandmother were still with us, she would be standing at the head of the table and not me. First a few notes of congratulations. First, Ms. Tate has made contact with some of the old networks in Chicago and Miami. We may be bringing them into the fold soon. And it turns out that they’ve seen the same decline in sorcerers in their areas as we have up here.

  “But while Finale may have wiped out the White Union, I think everyone here has told me that no customer has disappeared under mysterious circumstances for a while now. Hopefully, this means that things are getting back to normal. With that in mind, I want to ask you to see if any of your customers would be willing to join a new White Union.”

  That last remark was met with silence. Madison felt her stomach sink.

  Veronica Ross raised a finger. “Madison, I wish I could tell you that I knew sorcerers willing to help you, but the last few years were horrible. You weren’t here for that. They’re only now coming out of their shells. Perhaps in the future, but now isn’t a good time.”

  Madison shot Greg a glance, only to see him raise an eyebrow in response.

  Hank Mahoney started to chuckle, breaking into a full-blown laugh. “That’s your plan? Begging for volunteers? You’ve built quite a house of sticks, but the big bad wolf is out there. And he’s going to come in here and gut you.”

  “Real nice,” shouted Amelia Tate, her head bobbing forward like an angry hen.

  “I mean look at her,” Hank shot back, pointing at Madison, with a drink in his hand. “DO any of you feel safe? The government could find out about you. The other cartels could come down here. And believe me, it won’t take that long for them to find this place. I hope none of you are planning on this being a long-term gig, because trouble is coming. Bet on it.”

  “Hank!” snapped Veronica Ross.

  “It’s a fair statement,” said Hank. Eyes began to turn from Madison to Hank, curious eyes. “I mean this is all fine and good, but we were told you were putting Nancy’s organization back together and I have to tell you all I don’t see it, especially after you just asked us to give up our clients to protect you. Anyone here lose any customers recently?”

  Heads shook.

  “Let’s be honest. The only reason she’s sitting there and we’re sitting here, is because she knows the recipe.” He turned back to face Madison. “Perhaps you should share it with one or two of us.”

  “I’m in charge, here,” shouted Madison.

  Hank’s voice went cold with a shade of sobriety. “Then you shouldn’t have to say it.”

  Hank locked eyes with Madison. He smiled. “So, tell us, how do you plan to make us safe. Huh? What’s your master plan? How do you plan to keep my customers out of the morgue?”

  Gregory Benson boiled over, slamming his hand on the table. “That’s enough, Mr. Mahoney. I’m appalled you’d sit here and insult our host. Nancy Mosby would not stand for your behavior.”

  “My behavior? Who are you? I sell five times what all of you sell.” He pointed a fat finger at the other guests.

  Madison rose from her chair. “Get out, Hank.”

  Hank ignored her and continued his rant. “If I was running the show, we’d have order. We’d have...”

  Gunshots rang out. Hank jerked back into his seat. The back of his head exploded in a cloud of burgundy mist. The others froze. Sarah stood next to Madison, a smoking pistol in her hands.

  Hank’s limp body slouched onto Joey Rondell, who shot up out of his chair to escape the blood pouring from what was left of Hank’s head. The smell of dinner was now erased by the odor of gun smoke and fresh blood.

  “Anybody else want to talk shit?” asked Sarah. She aimed the pistol at the rest of the guests.

  Madison felt like she was going to throw up. She grabbed Amelia Tate’s Old fashioned and downed it, while everyone was still fixated on Sarah. Her mind cleared and she realized what she needed to do. Her right ear was ringing so loud that she could barely hear her own voice say, “Thank you, Sarah. Mr. Mahoney was out of line.”

  Willing herself not to shake like a wet cat in winter, Madison got up from her seat and walked over to the china closet at the other side of the dining room. She pulled out a small key and unlocked it. Inside, sitting in a small vase, was a single Winter Rose, cut earlier that afternoon. She held it up with her bare hand, to stunned looks. Carefully walking around the table so that all could see her, she stopped next to Hank’s slouching body.

  She put the rose in her mouth, like a tango dancer. Several people gasped at this. Adrenaline gave her the strength to yank the top half of Hank back up onto the table. She pulled the thorny stem from her mouth. Joey Rondell and Cedric Wolfe got up from their chairs and staggered away from her, not wanting any part of what was about to happen.

  Madison stood up straight and lo
oked everyone in the eye. She spoke in a calm, soothing tone. “I reward loyalty, and punish treachery. I’m working on fixing our little security problem, but in the meantime, please know that threats will be met with severe consequences.” With that she pushed the stem of the Winter Rose down Hank’s collar, and his body disintegrated inside his clothes. Within thirty seconds, the flesh and bone that comprised his stocky body was spilling out in the form of gray dust from the collar and sleeves of his sport jacket.

  Chapter 25

  Dinner at Billy’s Crab Shack was a joyless affair for the Painter family. Shelby had convinced Jacob to go there tonight, just to get the kids out of the house and have a reward dinner for Ethan finishing soccer camp this week.

  Jacob didn’t protest too much and thirty minutes later they were sitting down to a sticky table, surrounded by other families caught in the paradox of not having to cook or do dishes, but instead required to shout at their kids to behave in the play area, just off the dining room. Jacob threatened, as he always did, to tell the hostess it was her birthday, just to see the look on her face when she brought out her drivers’ license to prove otherwise.

  Ha, ha, ha, never gets old, Jacob.

  A new email popped up on Shelby’s phone. She opened it and noticed her physical archive search was complete. There were no records containing the words Moonmilk or Rose Widow.

  Shit.

  A pang of frustration warped her brain. Where to go now? The Preen’s Floral Shop was a dead end. There were no criminal records associated with the place. She called in a favor with the Arlington PD and had an off-duty cop watch it for a few hours, but there was nothing suspicious about it. People walked in, bought flowers and left. Delivery trucks came and left. The lights went off an hour after closing, just like every other shop and restaurant on the street. The original owners had transferred ownership to their son and he continued running the place.

  Usually, if a place was dirty, there would be activity in the back alley or people who didn’t look like they lived in the neighborhood walking in and out with flowers they tossed in the trash a block away. Their real purchase, drugs, was stashed in their pockets.

  The flower shop looked like a dead end, but there were the old-timers, in the bureau’s alumni association. While they were all retired, they were a resource. There was no substitute for experience after all. She pulled out her paper notepad and scribbled a note to call a few of her friends from the association. It was a longshot, but it was the only option left. And Quantico had taught her, she needed to follow every possible lead.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Jacob.

  The question broke Shelby’s train of thought. She must have been scowling at her phone.

  “What? Oh, it’s nothing, just work stuff.”

  Jacob learned early on not to press her on work things. She couldn’t tell him anything anyway. He was a civilian accountant and not cleared to know what she knew.

  “Hey kids,” Jacob called out toward the play area, “come back here and finish your cheeseburgers.”

  Shelby leaned back in her chair and drained the remainder of her disappointing Chardonnay.

  ***

  Earlier that day, Ms. Marcia Hepler made her way to her last stop, before returning to her desk in the basement of the FBI’s Myrle T. Laski building, outside of Brookville, Pennsylvania. The unassuming, five story building served as the physical archive for the bureau’s paper records. It smelled like an old bookstore, in spite of the air purifiers and humidity control system.

  While most of the bureau’s records had been digitized, Presidential Order 13186.2 had mandated that all paper records be stored indefinitely as a precautionary measure, should the bureau’s computer systems become compromised beyond recovery.

  Trudging down aisle after aisle of filing cabinets, Ms. Hepler pushed a handcart, not unlike the kind the mail room staffers pushed around the offices, picking up burn bags and delivering periodicals. In the cart sat a stack of manila file folders, each showing its age with weathered corners, frayed edges, the odd notation in pencil, and brown rings left by coffee mugs.

  The intercom system bellowed. “Dr. Lee, Dr. Lee, you have a call on hold.” The anachronistic intercom system further erased any semblance of the modern world. Employees were never able to get a cell signal in the basement, so someone had the bright idea to install an intercom on the rare occasion someone got an urgent phone call while they were away from their desk.

  Ms. Hepler stopped at filing cabinet 30148-G. The second drawer held the file folder she was looking for, something labeled Project Ajax. She plucked it up with the care and ease of a mother cat picking up a kitten in her mouth, and placed the folder on the stack of other related files, containing the words “Moonmilk” and “Rose Widow.”

  That was one of the stranger requests she’d seen in her thirteen years working in the records department. Moonmilk sounded like some hippie sting operation or some new wave cult from the 1970s. Maybe the Rose Widow was their charismatic, acid-soaked leader, who pranced around half-naked in a field waiting for furry men to grab her whatevers. Or, maybe it was the code name for a biker meth undercover deal. Nothing had come back for Rose Widow, but Moonmilk had gotten a few hits.

  Whatever Moonmilk was, Ms. Hepler would do what she always did: review the document’s clearance identifiers, to make sure that the person requesting the document had the proper authority to view it. If everything was in order, she’d scan the documents, encrypt them, and send them along to the requesting agent.

  In some cases, the files would be so sensitive the requester would have to come out to Brookville just to view them. Although, Ms. Hepler couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.

  So far everything was in order. Deputy Director Painter was cleared to view each of the ten files. All that changed when Ms. Hepler got to the last folder, the one titled “Project Ajax.” Upon opening this folder, Ms. Hepler found a yellow coversheet on top of the papers inside. It read,

  Document Number: 223871-G

  Classified: Constellation A-1

  Date: 1971, April, 23

  This document is classified Constellation A-1 in concurrence with the authorities listed below:

  Admiral James P. Simplot – US Navy

  General Alexander J. G. Fowler – US Air Force

  Honorable Matthew K. Donaldson Sr. – Deputy Secretary of Defense

  Dr. Peter P. Howard - Director of National Scientific Projects Agency

  Review of this document (no. 223871-4G) is restricted to the individuals listed below:

  The President of the United States

  Director of the National Scientific Projects Agency

  Anyone requesting to view this document, other than the aforementioned individual(s), may be subject to imprisonment, under Executive Order 10213-D.

  Request made to view this document, or information contained herein, shall be reported immediately to the telephone number 703-907-0537.

  Records requests made in addition to this document will be canceled immediately with no further explanation to the requesting party or parties. Failure to comply may result in imprisonment, under Executive Order 10213-D.

  Signed,

  General Alexander J. G. Fowler – US Air Force

  Ms. Hepler closed the folder as if there were a snake inside. In all her years in the physical records department, she had never seen a cover letter like that. With great care, she opened the folder and scribbled down the notice telephone number.

  Oh mercy, she thought.

  Had she really read that? Conflicting thoughts ran through her head: did she really want to call the number and report Ms. Painter? What if they asked if she’d read the files under the cover sheet? She didn’t want to go to jail over this. She was going to see her new grandbaby this weekend.

  The phone receiver felt like a brick in her shaky hand. She had to call the number—it was her job. She hadn’t done anything wrong. It was her duty to pull files and follow procedu
res, no matter what her personal thoughts were on the matter. She took a deep breath, said a quick prayer and dialed the number.

  The other end of the call rang and rang. It sounded like a phone from forty years ago. There was static on the line. Finally, she heard a beep and a recorded voice started to speak.

  “Hello, please state the document number you are calling about, followed by the requesting party or parties. If you have reached this number in error, please hang up now.”

  This was followed by another beep that sounded like an old answering machine.

  “Hello,” Ms. Hepler’s voice trembled. “This is Marcia Hepler.” She paused. What else did they want to know? Should she give them some sort of personally identifiable information, like her birthday or address? How would they know she was an actual employee and not some crack pot who dialed the wrong number?

  Ms. Hepler paused, thinking about what else she should say, recited it in her head and pressed on. “I work at the physical records office in the Brookville office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I am a Government G12 level employee and…”

  There was a loud beep and the line went dead.

  Shoot!

  Apparently, she needed to be a bit more concise in her message. She placed the receiver back in the cradle and started to dial the number again. The second line on her phone started to blink, causing a cold sweat to run down Ms. Hepler’s back.

  Oh, Lord. Had they had tracked her down that fast?

  She answered the other line, her heart pounding in her throat. “Hello, records office, Ms. Hepler speaking.” She must have sounded like someone was chasing her.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said a man on the other line. “I was trying to get ahold of Dr. Lee. Can you transfer me to him?”

  Relieved and a trifle angry, Ms. Hepler responded with, “Certainly, sir. I will transfer you now.”

  She punched in the extension for Dr. Lee, who needed to get back to his gosh darn desk and answer his blasted phone.