Chapter 2: Gathering Clouds

Putnam Mississippi didn't strike James Yancy as a very friendly town. Of course he wasn't catching it on its best day. Take away the crime scene tape, chalk outlines of fallen law officers, and blood and Main Street would have probably looked inviting, in a rustic sort of way. The fact that thirteen locals and one John Doe had taken a violent and premature trip to the mortuary probably accounted for the people of Putnam being less than effervescent.

Yancy looked at his quiet, brooding partner and found he couldn't resist taking a shot.

"Have we just wandered into your family reunion Robert?"

Robert Butler turned to face his partner. He was a little shorter than James was, so he had to look up slightly. No trace of a smile could be found on Butler's perpetually gloomy face. Yancy felt his gallows humor fading, but he wouldn't give up without a fight.

"You do know the even Helmut von Moltke smiled twice in his life." James observed as he and Butler walked toward the sealed off area around the town square.

"Herr von Moltke had a morbid sense of humor." Butler's voice revealed no approval or disapproval. "If he were still alive, he might laugh at your joke."

Yancy was taken aback by his saturnine partner's uncharacteristic retort. He was about to point out that Butler was growing a sense of humor, when a Clay county deputy approached.

"This is a crime scene, gentlemen. Are you authorized to be here?" The deputy was polite but firm. James Yancy appreciated professionalism. He produced his identification.

"I'm Special Agent James Yancy, and this is my partner, Special Agent Butler. We are here to aid in the Bryant investigation."

The deputy nodded and stepped aside.

"Captain Duvall is expecting you." The deputy pointed down Main Street. "He's over at the library, talking to witnesses from last night." James thanked the deputy, and walked in the direction indicated.

Yancy had worked with Henry Duvall on a kidnapping five years before and the FBI agent had no trouble spotting him among a gaggle of mismatched uniforms and plainclothes. The Mississippian's craggy face had a few more wrinkles, and his brown hair had faded to silver, but his aura of authority had not diminished. He was in the library's main room, giving orders to the polyglot law enforcement personnel. Yancy saw the recognition on Captain Duvall's face when the State man looked up. Duvall finished with his instructions, and walked over to the pair of G-men.

"I'm glad that the FBI sent the two of you." Duvall said as he offered his hand in turn to Yancy and Butler. "The sooner we catch Jason Bryant the better."

"You have fourteen dead from last night?" Butler asked.

"Well, we have thirteen dead, including Bryant's own parents and younger brother. The other fellow had a shotgun loaded with the type of ammunition that was used by the Bryant gang, as well as a Desert Eagle autopistol loaded with Glaser rounds. We suspect strongly that he was with Bryant, and one of the local citizens cleaned his clock."

"Was he burned, like the other victims?" Butler asked.

"No, nor was he shot." Duvall said, rubbing his eyes. "The county coroner says that someone struck him on the chin with enough force to tear his jawbone loose and break his neck. None of the witnesses saw anyone strolling down the street with a sledgehammer, but baseball bats are less noticeable. I think some athletic fellow on his way home from an afternoon game took exception to being shot at."

"Did anyone see a person with a bat around the time of the shooting?" Yancy asked. Duvall shook his head.

"No one admits to seeing any such a person or to being the one to do the deed for that matter. I have everyone who was on Main Street last night, and who was in Caufield Park from three-thirty until sunset, here at the library. I've talked to each person, but I asked them to stay in case the FBI wanted to speak with them."

"Yes, I would like to interview the witnesses." Yancy said, thankful that Captain Duvall had kept them together in one place.

"I would like to examine the crime scenes and speak with your coroner as soon as possible." Butler said. "Have you been able to identify the John Doe?"

"No." Duvall said, shaking his head. "He had no ID, and his finger prints haven't turned up anything yet. We're hoping that the FBI will have them on file."

"I'll do what I can to expedite the process." Butler said, his frown softening slightly.

Henry Duvall instructed one of his men to take Agent Butler to speak with the forensic team. Then, he led Agent Yancy to the reading room, where the witnesses would be brought for their interviews. James took out his notebook and pencil, and sat them on the table.

"Please send in the first witness." Yancy said as he poured himself a glass of water.

Jason Bryant crouched in a thicket of trees and scrub near the town of Montpelier. The wooded patch offered good concealment and a little shade as well. The hiding place was well situated for Jason's needs. There was only a junkyard and a rail line near the thicket. Few people would have reason to pass near the hiding place, reducing the chance of the youth being spotted.

The sunrise reminded the youth that his parents and younger brother had been dead for a little over twenty-four hours. Its fiery coloration reminded Jason how they had died. Jason had mourned in the Yethan fashion for his family and his beloved Carla, but he still felt their loss like an open wound.

The young man had never known such hatred as filled him now. He had never wished to unleash his full strength and predatory savagery on another person until the previous night. A part of Jason welcomed the chance to meet the murdering cowards again. A part was afraid, not just of the killers, but of what he would do to them if he had the chance.

Jason was distracted from his grim thoughts by a slight pin prick sensation on his right forearm. The youth rolled up his sleeve and found a tick in the act of driving its proboscis into his skin. Most ticks could tell the difference between a Human and a Yethan, but one would occasionally be born without the ability. The tick withdrew almost instantly, but it was too late.

The Yethan blood it had consumed attacked the tick's cells like an invading virus. It fell to the ground, twitching in agony. The tick was dead in seconds, a victim of the Yethan immune system. The same immune system destroyed the germs that had been introduced into Jason's arm and healed the tick's bite by the time the parasite was dead.

The doomed pest's attempt to feed reminded Jason that he had not eaten since supper two nights past. His hunger wasn't overwhelming... yet. Jason had been keeping a watch for intruders. Now, he began to search for prey.

The pickings seemed slim. Jason could hear and smell rats hidden from sight in the junkyard and surrounding weeds, a possum was in a tree in Jason's thicket, and a pair of dogs was chasing grasshoppers near the train tracks. The Bryant children had been raised to see most animals as food and nothing more. Jason's formative years had been devoid of most Disney movies. He had helped in the more grisly aspects of farm life, and he had gone hunting since he was old enough to do so.

Still, Jason couldn't bring himself to harm the frolicking dogs. His mother's animal focus had been canines, and Sean had been fond of dogs. It would have broken Leprechaun's heart for his big brother to kill the dogs.

The rats where also going to be off of the menu. Jason didn't feel a special connection to the foul, malodorous vermin. Humans sometimes ate rats in desperate times, when the only other choice was starvation. The young Yethan considered that a good example to follow.

That left the possum. Though it was far from Jason's favorite, the American marsupial was somewhat better than the other choice. The selection made, Jason needed a way to bring his breakfast down from the narrow branch on which it rested.

Climbing after the possum was out of the question. Its branch would not support Jason's weight. He looked around the base of the tree for a rock. Jason found good-sized sandstone. He hefted the rock, getting a feel for its weight. The rock felt right in his hand. Jason wanted only a better target.

From utter stillness, Jason drew back his arm and hurled the projectile in a single, lightning-quick motion. The rock flew straight and true, hitting the possum's head with enough force to penetrate a human skull.

The possum had been knocked a little distance from the tree by the force of the impact. Jason found the dead creature as much by smell as by sight. The sharp smell of possum was interlaced with the tantalizing scent of fresh blood. The head was smashed to a pulp. The Yethan had let his emotions get the better of him.

Jason had been thinking of the C.R.F. assassins, visualizing the one he had punched, when he threw his rock. Instead of feeling a release of the anger that burned inside him, Jason felt only frustration and a building of the crushing pressure of his hate. Jason had been deprived of his chance to unleash his wrath on the murderer.

The youth picked the possum up. As he did, the Yethan felt his eyeteeth extend to their full length. In their retracted state, they looked like human canines, but now the teeth were revealed to be needle sharp fangs.

Jason had only begun to feed when he heard the train approaching from the south. He risked a look in that direction. It was a freight train; just what Jason had been waiting for. The young Yethan hated to waste food, but there was no time to finish the possum. Jason dropped his breakfast and picked up his duffel.

As the train began to pass the thicket, Jason watched for a likely car. After about a minute of watching the procession of freight cars speed by, the youth saw one that seemed to fit his needs. It was a battered boxcar, covered in rust and graffiti. The sliding door appeared to be jammed half open. Jason gauged distance and speed in his head. When he reckoned the time right, the teen ran at the train.

Jason cleared the thicket at Olympic speed. As the boy charged across the clearing, the world seemed to slow down. The Yethan pushed himself to his limits. Jason jumped at the last moment. His aim proved to be adequate. The youth past through the opening, but he was moving too fast to stop. Jason skidded across the boxcar's floor and slammed into a large, wooden crate. There was a starburst of pain... then nothing.

Gwen Bryant didn't stick around to find out who was knocking at her apartment door. She slipped out onto her balcony, looked and listened. When she was sure that no assassins or innocent bystanders were below, Gwen jumped. The two-story fall was nothing to the Yethan. She landed in a crouch. Gwen's senses told her that all was clear, and she ran and jumped over the hedge that bordered the apartment parking lot.

Once clear of the area, Gwen had bought a bus ticket to Waynesboro. In Waynesboro she had used one of her fake ID's and a large part of her money to buy a used car and a road map. Gwen was on Interstate 81, near Staunton when she realized that she was being followed.

Gwen quickly ruled out the possibility that the hunter green sedan in her rear view was just going the same way. When she stopped for gas, the other car would disappear. When Gwen resumed her journey, it would return.

The Young woman had switched roads, changed directions, and deliberately past through small towns in an effort to elude her pursuers. Such vehicular subterfuge wasn't Gwen's forte. Though she managed to get lost twice herself, Gwen never lost the two men in the green Ford.

They couldn't be police, Gwen reasoned. She was certain that had they been police, her efforts to shake their pursuit would have gotten her pulled over. That left the Circle of Righteous Fire.

If they were the C.R.F., Gwen couldn't lead them to her brother. She touched the comforting bulk of the pistol in her handbag. They would be trained killers, and the revolver was the only equalizer the young woman had. Gwen fought to control her fear. She had to find a place to confront her hunters.

Andy Hodgkin was nearly disappointed by the female creature's lack of skill at vehicular evasion. Of course, it was a hunter. The beast was used to stalking its helpless prey, not being stalked. Hodgkin smiled at the thought.

"It would be so easy to kill it." He spoke aloud.

"Our orders are to let the she-beast lead us to her male counterpart." Paul Bauer said disapprovingly from the passenger seat. "If we kill her, we may never get him. Be patient."

"It's spotted us." Hodgkin argued. "It won't lead us to anything now."

"The Council says that they will be drawn together." Bauer replied his voice full of certainty and a touch of awe. Hodgkin rolled his eyes. If the Council of Elders declared that the ocean was made of pink lemonade, Bauer would drink seawater in the summer. The Council was always right. There was no use trying to convince Paul of anything else.

"Then we keep following the demon until we catch both, or our orders are changed." Hodgkin said, making no effort to hide his resignation. "It's a lucky thing that Remington and his group didn't bring the police down on our heads. If the cops had any idea what really happened in Putnam, we wouldn't have time for these games."

"Do not confuse the will of God with mere luck." Bauer responded huffily. "The unfaithful will never see that Satan's minions walk among them. As to Remington, he and his aides slew six demons and one human traitor at the cost of one of our brothers. Your attitude belittles their accomplishment and their sacrifice."

Stupidity was stupidity, in Hodgkin's opinion. Trusting God to protect you from your own arrogance and foolishness seemed to the C.R.F. hunter to be a sure path to ruin. Telling Bauer this would be a waste of time. Arrogant fools never saw themselves as such. Hodgkin felt frustrated and trapped by his inflexible partner.

Ted McGill was a typical looking high school athlete, wiry rather than bulked up. He had brown hair and brown eyes. Ted's boyish face looked all the more youthful for the sullen expression he wore. Ted was wearing a pair of blue jeans, a sweatshirt, big white high tops, and his gray and crimson letter jacket. The young man had more medals than a Russian admiral would, but most of these were now hidden behind his crossed arms.

"You think Jason Bryant killed his own family." The boy made the statement an accusation. "You don't know how much Jason loved his family."

Agent Yancy had wanted to speak with young Mr. McGill because the teen was on Main Street when the jailbreak had occurred. Now he had another subject to discuss with the youngster, but first things first.

"You were near the Sheriff's office last night around seven, correct?" Yancy asked.

"Yes sir, I was walkin' past the war memorial- the old cannon -when I hear somebody holler 'Police!' Next thing I know, guns start going off and people start running for cover. I saw this guy with a short shotgun- the thing didn't have a stock -come running through the crowd right at me. I dove under the cannon. He ran on passed, seemed to be looking for something on the other side of the street. I lost sight of the guy 'cause of the parked cars and trees and such."

"Did you see or hear anything else?" Yancy asked, his pencil scratching rapidly across the paper.

"I heard gunfire from the direction of the jail and the courthouse. It sounded like shotguns and pistols." The boy spoke like someone with a working knowledge of firearms. "I kept my head down 'til the State police and EMS showed up." While Ted recounted his experience of the previous night, his face took on a distant, thoughtful expression. When the teen finished, he resumed his accusatory and defiant mien.

"You said that I don't know how much Mr. Bryant loved his family. Are you and he friends?" Agent Yancy asked.

"Yes sir. We've both been on the track and field team since ninth grade. I reckon that the only person at our school that knows him better than me is Carla." Ted's face showed a moment of pained realization, and then he amended his statement. "She knew him better."

"Carla Draper, you mean?" James asked. Ted only nodded solemnly in response; his forgetful lapse of verb tense having served to remind the teen that his friend was dead. "I am told that Jason and Carla were dating. Is that correct?"

"Yes sir. Jason and Carla started dating back in middle school. If there's such a thing as true love, they had it."

"They were very close?"

"Well sir, about a year ago, Carla gave Jason a silver tiger necklace. Jason gave her one just like it, like they had read each others mind. He never takes it off. I'm told that Carla never took hers off either. I understand that they never forget each other's birthday, or any important anniversary in their relationship. If you asked Jason, he could tell you Carla's favorite song, movie, book, poem, food, or color." The youth shook his head. "I wish my girlfriend and I were that close."

"How would Jason have felt if Carla had broken up with him?" Ted's eyes widened and surprise wrote itself across his face. In a moment, it was displaced by a smug expression.

"I reckon that would just about tear Jason's heart out. 'Course, he didn't show any sign of such misery on the day before the murder. Jason may be the star of the track team, but he'll never be any good at cards. He can't hide what he's feeling, even when he tries."

The interview with Ted McGill proved to be typical. Most of the people who had been in or near the square had been too busy dodging bullets to notice anything important, and those who had known Jason Bryant held him in high regard. There was but one voice that did not sing the suspect's praises.

Leo Jacobs came in as the last 'witness' left. He introduced himself to the G-man and offered his hand. As they shook hands, the two law officers subjected each other to trained scrutiny.

For his part, Agent Yancy noted that Jacobs was in his fifties, about average height and stocky. The detective's graying hair was cut in military fashion, and his grip was firm and dry. His rumpled, brown suit smelled faintly of cigarettes. The condition of the detective's clothes and his weary demeanor spoke of a busy night. James doubted that Jacobs had taken a moment of rest, much less sleep, since his partner had been slain.

"Good morning Detective Jacobs." James said in greeting. Then the FBI agent looked at his watch. "Or, should I say good afternoon?"

"Y-yes Agent Yancy, as you say." Jacobs seemed suddenly nervous. Yancy wondered why.

"Is there something I can do for you Detective?" Jacobs didn't speak for a moment. Then, he took the plunge.

"When you catch up with Jason Bryant, you're going to have to kill him."

"Excuse me?" James couldn't believe that he had heard Jacobs correctly.

"When Palmer and I were questioning Bryant, just before we arrested him, Palmer got in his face. Bryant wasn't giving us the answers we needed, and Detective Brice was losing his patience. I could see that my partner was backing Bryant into a corner, and I told him to ease up. You know 'good cop bad cop'? Then I spoke to Bryant, to reassure him." The detective's voice had gone shaky, and he paused to collect himself before continuing. "Bryant turned toward my voice, and for a second I saw passed his façade." Leo Jacobs wet his lips. He seemed to want to stop, but he continued. "It was his eyes! Those strange blue-gray eyes like the eyes of a caged predator. There was no humanity in those eyes. Bryant could have killed me in that moment, but he reigned himself in. I convinced myself that I had imagined it, but then he pulled off this escape, killing everyone who got in his way. When he's caught, and he knows that he is caught, he won't hold back. You mustn't either. Shoot to kill and keep shooting until you put him on the ground. If you don't, he'll come right for your throat!"

James Yancy was accustomed to hiding his thoughts and feelings when the situation called for it. Now didn't seem like a good time to reveal the concern and shock he felt at the detective's revelation. It seemed that the death of his partner had driven Jacobs to the verge of a nervous breakdown. Yancy was determined to speak with the Chief of Detectives as soon as Jacobs left. The man had to be taken off of active duty before he hurt himself or someone else.

Despite Yancy's effort to hide his reaction, Jacobs seemed to know his story hadn't been believed. Before crossing the threshold out of the room, Leo Jacobs turned to speak one more time.

"Don't be fooled by his appearance. Jason Bryant is a monster. He killed his own family, and I wouldn't be surprised if there were teeth marks on the bones."

Agent Yancy waited a few seconds after Detective Jacobs had left, and then he set out to find his superior. James hoped that his partner had had better luck with his day.

There had been little to see at what was left of the Bryant and Draper homes. Both houses were fairly isolated, so the fire department had not arrived in time to save much more than the foundations. If there had been any clues in the ashes, the efforts of the coroner to recover the remains of the victims had erased them. There was an exhaustive series of crime scene photos, but Robert Butler greatly preferred to examine the crime scene itself.

Doctor Blanchard's house was considerably more intact. The back door's lock had been destroyed. After a moment of examination, Agent Butler determined that a lock gun had been used. Lock guns were very hard to come by, but no more so than the special ammunition that the gang had used in the gunfight.

The doctor had met her end in her home office, a steel hook, freshly attached to a rafter, and a length of nylon rope served as the gallows. A chalk circle marked the spot where the coins had been found. Doctor Blanchard's computer was still on her desk. Likewise, the drug cabinet was undisturbed. None of the victim's possessions seemed to be missing, but something was there that shouldn't be. It was a familiar odor that would have been less surprising a century earlier.

"Do any of you smell chloroform?" Butler asked the officers that were still guarding the crime scene. The police sniffed the air.

"So that's what that smell is." One said.

"That's not too surprising." Another offered sarcastically. "This is a doctor's office."

"I would expect to smell ether, but not chloroform." Butler responded a note of disapproval in his voice. "No modern doctor worthy of the title would use chloroform due to its adverse effect on the liver." Robert Butler walked into the hall and sniffed the air. "The smell is even stronger out here." He said.

"Do you think that the killer caught Doctor Blanchard in the hall, drugged her, and dragged her in here?" the second officer asked.

Agent Butler didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked up the hall. He listened to how the hardwood floor creaked. The G-man noted a recent deep scar on the wainscoting. Butler opened the front door and saw that the doorknob fit the mark on the wall. Robert closed the door, and walked halfway up the stairs. Then he returned to the office. The younger officer had returned to his search for fingerprints, but the one with the smart mouth seemed to be waiting for an answer.

"Yes" was all the answer he received. "I'm ready to see your town square."

The center of town was still quiet. A somber pall hung over the empty streets where unaccustomed violence had struck at the community's heart. Even the reporters (and they were there from all over the country and beyond) seemed subdued. Video and film cameras were focused on Agent Butler as he went about his job, but no flurry of shouted questions assailed him.

The local and state police had done an excellent job calculating the trajectory of fire and the positions of all the armed combatants. The killers had first gathered in front of the jail. That was when Detective Brice had taken his first wound. They had then split up and two had suppressed the law officers at the jail and courthouse. The third had gone further up the street, to a position in front of the pharmacy.

The perpetrator that had been tasked with covering the jail had come under fire and been wounded. The bullet from Deputy Tucker's pistol had passed through the attacker and spent itself in the tire of a parked truck. Two flattened bullets were found near the bloodstain, suggesting that the criminal had been wearing body armor.

The killer who had fired on the officers leaving the courthouse had also been wearing armor, judging by the flattened rounds found among the spent shotgun shells and shotgun he had left behind. Another bloodstain could be found nearby.

"Was this perpetrator wounded as well?" Butler asked the deputy coroner who accompanied him.

"No sir." The woman answered with a note of regret evident in her words. "That isn't human blood. Animal control got a phone call about a bunch of stray cats in the area just before the gun battle. I reckon one of them got caught in the crossfire."

Agent Butler looked at the blood. It was smeared, as if something large had been dragged through it. The something had to be larger than a cat. In addition, the red-brown stain wasn't between the courthouse and the killer's position (as revealed by the location of the shell casings and gun). It was between the killer and the drugstore. One of the suspects had been found near the pharmacy. It didn't make sense for the fellow covering the courthouse to turn and fire in the direction of his partner unless he was firing at whoever had killed the other perpetrator.

It didn't seem to make sense for the dead killer to be where he was for that matter. There was no armed threat to be suppressed in that direction. Was he trying to lead Bryant to safety? No, the van they used for their escape was in the opposite direction. Robert Butler's analytical mind went to work on the problem. He had no doubt that he would puzzle out the answer, but he desired more data to work with.

"Please take me to the morgue." Butler said to his escort. "And get me a sample of this blood."

Joshua Remington found the secret room in the Martin basement to be surprisingly comfortable. Likewise, he was thankful that Walter Martin was a trained nurse. But Joshua did not like being cooped up. Beth Martin had agreed to let the hunter into the kitchen. The basement stairs were nearby, and Joshua could hobble back into concealment if a car was spotted coming down the private road.

Mr. Martin had informed Joshua that he had been very lucky. The bullet had passed cleanly through his leg, leaving bones and major blood vessels intact. His mobility was still severely impaired, so he wouldn't be doing any more hunting for a while. Joshua sat in the pleasant, butter yellow kitchen, a cool, honeysuckle scented breeze wafting through the screen door. The overall effect would have been soothing if Joshua Remington had been a patient man.

"Please, oh Lord, give me some task to occupy my time until I am recovered." Joshua prayed. "Let me be not idle, but busy at Thy work."

A few minutes later, the Martin children returned from school. They arrived by age, in ascending order. Little Elizabeth Jean (age five) stormed through the screen door, her pudgy, little fingers grasping her latest finger-paint opus, to add to the icebox gallery. Next entered the twins, quiet Edward and outgoing Richard (age ten). Bringing up the rear was Walter Junior (age fifteen). The Martin children were golden headed like their parents and in good physical condition, like all of the Circle's children.

"Where's Momma?" Elizabeth Jean asked. Edward sat down at the kitchen table, and opened his book bag, Richard began rummaging through the refrigerator, and Walter Jr. leaned against the sink.

"Your Mother has been called to work early." Joshua answered. The little girl's smile faded a bit at the news. Edward continued to lay out the night's homework for himself and his siblings, while Richard got three bottles of apple juice and a coke out of the fridge. Young Walter remained at the sink, giving the stranger in their midst a measuring gaze.

"I'll hang your picture up." Richard told his little sister as he handed out the drinks. "Now get on your homework so it'll be done when Dad gets home." Edward and Elizabeth set to work and Richard taped up the picture.

"Do you need anything to eat or drink Mr. Remington?" Richard asked before he sat down.

"No thank you. Your Mother gave me a sandwich and coffee for lunch." Joshua replied.

The three younger siblings went to their work, but Walter continued to stand at the sink, sipping his coke and watching Joshua through narrowed eyes. The boy's expression was neither friendly nor belligerent. He looked as if he would like to say something, but would not unless prompted.

"Is something the matter Walter?"

"What sort of monster is Jason Bryant?" The boy asked.

Joshua was surprised by the question for two reasons.