Page 10

Chapter ten

B artholomew sat at his command post at Reapers, scanning camera feeds from all the different locations he had around Texarkana and even the ones that he hacked into. He wasn’t looking for anything special, just checking the areas for anything unusual. For the past year, he’d made it part of his ritual just to monitor the cities at least once a week. This evening his mind was distracted, but he went through the motions.

“Why do you keep going to Myrtle Springs Road?” Constantine asked from the kitchen table.

“What?”

“You have roamed over the same area five times in the last ten minutes,” Constantine pointed with his paw. “What are you looking for?”

It took Bartholomew just a second to realize he was scanning the area near the place where he saw Magdalena. He took a deep breath, searching for something to say.

“Nothing,” he said softly. “A bit distracted. Guess my mind is still stuck with my condolences visit.”

“It never gets easy,” Constantine informed him. “But Pete told me Scott Leary stopped by already inquiring for a job. You made an impression.”

“Good,” said Bartholomew, changing the location on the screen. “Is Pete going to hire him?”

“We desperately need EMTs and paramedics,” Constantine confessed. “Scott seems eager, has great grades. Pete is hoping to have him onboarded by next week.”

“That would be great.” Bartholomew let the feed face Union Station. “Scott seems pretty worried his mother could lose her job over this.”

“He wasn’t wrong.” Constantine faced Bartholomew. “The death of a child is a pretty traumatic event for any parent. Recovering can take years. Some never do.”

“Well, I’m glad I could help with something.” Bartholomew stretched and glanced out of the glass window facing the inside of Reapers.

Bartholomew always enjoyed being able to look down at the training area on the first floor. It made the space not feel so lonely.

“Are you sure you are okay?” Constantine pushed.

Do I really want to confess I have a crush on the dragon?

Bartholomew didn’t have time to answer his debate when the door to the loft popped open. Bob rushed in carrying a large platter and two bags.

“That crazy girl sent pie,” Bob announced.

“Who sent pie?” Bartholomew asked, jumping up from his seat to help Bob.

“Abby!” Bob informed them. “She went home for lunch and baked him a pie.”

“Baked who a pie?” Bartholomew placed the two large bags Bob was carrying on the counter.

“Him.” Bob pointed at Constantine with his chin.

“Awe! I told you she was adorable.” Constantine leaped from the kitchen table to the island to inspect his pie. “What kind did I get?”

“Apple.”

“Nice, classic, but good,” Constantine said, inspecting the perfectly crafted dessert.

“How long does she get for lunch, that she had time to bake a pie?” Bartholomew asked, slapping Constantine’s paw before he could stick it in the pie.

“Hey, it's my pie. I can pinch it if I want to,” complained Constantine.

“Not when we have plates, so stop that,” Bartholomew argued.

“She took a long lunch to surprise him.” Bob was standing with his hands on his hips. “How is that even fair? One day. Not even a day, a few hours, and she is just in love with him.”

“The girl has taste,” Constantine said proudly.

“Is she an undercover cat lady and we don’t even know it?” Bartholomew asked, taking notes for TJ. He should start shifting into a pussycat around the Station.

“She doesn’t even have one. She just really likes them,” Bob explained.

“There is nothing wrong with cat ladies,” Constantine chimed in. “Did you know there is a series called The Cat Lady by a local author? She even features Texarkana. Her first book is called The Cat Lady Special . She goes from Cat Lady to arms dealer.”

“How many times have you read it?” Bartholomew asked, glancing over his shoulder at Constantine.

“None!”

“Probably half a dozen times,” Bob corrected. “Any book that has the word cat in the title he has read or has on his to be read pile. The fact that one takes place in Texarkana is a bonus.”

“Actually, she made up this town in Cass country to set the illegal operations,” Constantine clarified.

“You know a lot about a book you have never read,” Bartholomew teased.

“I’m just keeping up with the local artists, that’s all.” Constantine pulled a small piece of pie with a sharp claw and inhaled it. “This is good. Have you considered giving her a promotion?”

“I’m not giving anyone a promotion for baking. Except our chef, of course,” Bob told his boss.

“How about making her the employee of the quarter?”

“That is probably frowned upon, since it comes across as quid-pro-quo,” Bartholomew added. “I’m pretty sure that it’s illegal in most federal installations.”

“We don’t work for the feds,” said Constantine. “Why should I care? Besides, Abby really needs an on-the-spot cash award.”

“Would you give an award to anyone who baked you a pie?” Bob questioned his boss again.

Bartholomew cut three slices and handed one to each of his companions. Without waiting, he took a bite and moaned.

“God, this is delicious,” Bartholomew told them. “Yes! Give that woman a bonus or promotion. I’m totally in. Can she make us more pies?”

“See, Bartholomew agrees.” Constantine took a bite of the slice Bartholomew had placed in front of him.

“Go ahead, try it, Bob,” Bartholomew urged him. “It’s okay to know someone else can bake as good as you.”

“It can’t possibly be that good.” Reluctantly, he took a bite.

Bartholomew and Constantine waited in silence as Bob chewed. The intern tried to fight it, but eventually he gave in and dropped his fork on the table.

“How can this be so good?” he cried. “She has never even mentioned she likes to cook, and now she is baking like a Michelin Chef. How?”

“I really don’t care how, she just needs to send more,” said Bartholomew. “That’s it. Constantine, you need to visit the Station at least once a week. We need more pies.”

“I hate to admit it, but Bart is right,” Bob agreed with a mouth full. “We need more pies.”

“The sacrifices a cat must make for the team.”

The trio laughed as they enjoyed the flaky pastry. A light knock at the door stopped their chewing, and Death walked in.

“Do I get some of whatever you three are devouring?” she asked.

“Abby made Constantine a pie, and it’s finger-licking good,” Bartholomew informed her, using one of his favorite southern expressions.

“Because I’m amazing,” Constantine said as an explanation.

“Better than Bob’s?” Death glanced at her newest intern.

“I know when I’ve been beaten, and this is good.” Bob took a deep bow.

“You might need to save me a piece. We have work to do.”

The radiant energy left the room, and everyone focused their attention on Death.

“Why can we never have a boring day?” Constantine asked.

“Have you ever had a boring day in five thousand years?” Death asked him.

“Not after meeting you,” said Constantine with a smile. “What is the crisis?”

“I’m not sure if it’s a crisis, but it’s definitely odd.” Death leaned against the glass window. “I just picked up the soul of another shifter. This time in Ferguson Park.”

“I’m seriously thinking all the parks in Texarkana are haunted,” said Bartholomew, walking towards his workstation.

“I don’t know about haunted, but something weird is going on in Haven,” Death confessed.

“Was the soul okay?” Constantine asked.

“Besides the usual shock at being dead, yes.” Death started pacing around the loft. “That’s another mystery. These last three victims all seem to have a great time before they died.”

“That’s a great way to go,” Bartholomew told them from his computer. “Better than staring at your killer and waiting for them to cut your throat out.”

“Really?” Constantine glared. “Did we have to go there?”

“As the only member of this group that has technically been killed, I can go there!” Bartholomew shouted.

“Oh please,” Constantine said. “All of us here, well minus Death, have been very close to dying or badly injured. So, no more references to your own doom and gloom.”

“Have I overused my death card?”

“Yes!” everyone said in unison.

“Fine,” Bartholomew replied, but rolled his eyes at the group. “Let’s get back to your dead shifter. Where was he?”

“By the trail near the front of the park, but not the pond,” Death told him, walking over.

“Of course, he would die there.” Bartholomew clicked several buttons and shook his head.

“Let me guess,” Death told him. “No cameras.”

“Not a single one.”

“What else can you tell us from the souls?” Constantine asked before licking his plate clean of the pie.

“I have a feeling they weren’t alone before they died,” said Death. “Granted, souls are disoriented after their passing. These three didn’t even know they had died.”

“What are we investigating again?” Bob asked the obvious question.

“Three fairly healthy male shifters, all dying within days of each other all in Haven,” Death stated the situation. “Nothing of that is natural and I don’t like surprises. The last thing we need is a serial killer loose in Haven.”

“If we have a serial killer, they are good,” Bartholomew told them. “If it wasn’t because the deaths were so close in time, nobody would have thought twice about them.”

“That’s the part that I don’t like,” said Death. “If this is a person doing this, they went through a lot of trouble not to leave a clue on the scene, and yet leave enough questions by killing them so close tougher.”

“Don’t they say every serial killer wants to be caught?” Constantine added.

“I think that’s only on those weird TV shows you watch,” Death corrected him. “Whatever is going on, I need you all to figure it out and stop it.”

“Yes boss,” said Bob. “Let me call Shorty and have him meet us there with a crew. Should we be worried about civilians?”

“No, the location was pretty dark that I wouldn’t expect any humans stumbling on the body until tomorrow.”

“I’m sending a message to Ricky,” Bartholomew told them. “He is our guy in the Arkansas side police department. Just in case someone makes a call.”

“Good idea,” said Bob, busy on his own phone texting the Union Station team. “Are you coming with us, Death?”

“No.” Death shook her head and her eyes got glassy. “I have business across the globe this evening. I’ll stay in touch.”

Death didn’t wait for an answer, instead vanished from the loft.

“This is where you get it from, Bart.” Bob pointed to the empty spot recently vacated by Death. “It just runs in the family, disappearing in the middle of a conversation without saying goodbye.”

“Just think, she is much better,” Bartholomew informed him. “At least now she knocks before popping into a room. That used to scare the hell out of me every time it happened when I was little. It took Constantine to warn me when she was coming so I would stop screaming.”

“Nobody ever claimed Death was ever good with living kids,” Constantine defended his old-time friend. “But I agree. She is much better now.”

“Team is on their way,” Bob announced. “Are you joining us, boss?”

“Not this time,” Constantine replied. “I’m going to do some scanning of my own using the drones. Maybe I can find someone lurking around where they shouldn’t be.”

“Let’s hope we find something useful,” said Bob, eating the last piece of pie from his plate.

“I have my phone if you need us,” Bartholomew told Constantine, following behind Bob.

At least a mission would keep Bartholomew’s mind focused and not thinking about the dragon shifter. He knew Death was right and something strange was happening in Haven. But Bartholomew really hoped it wasn’t a serial killer. Those were just hard to catch.