Chapter Three
Obscene
Pete and Myka, at the Prospect Park tree that had given the inspecting NYPD Officers a line on the possible firing spot of the shooter, have used the eleven millimeters wide, seven inches long hole, a veritable tunnel in the tree, to set the path of the projectile.
Having gone completely through a man's body, piercing sternum, heart and spine before exiting the man's back apparently no wider than it had been when it had gone in, the 'whatever' - for they doubt it is some sort of bullet unless composed of some wholly unknown metal - had continued its flight across the park, into the woods. There it had punched a smooth hole through seven inches of tree, then had gone on to… where?
The agents, left behind by the searchers who had tried to locate the shooter's most probable firing position for gunning down five men and seven women, have checked the sheet covered body. Measuring the man with a standard tape ruler Pete carries, they'd determined he had been hit 49 inches high on his body, and that the bullet had lost virtually no ballistic energy before puncturing the tree at that very same height.
Returning to the tree and looking through the hole, they set a line and follow it, shoulder to shoulder, into the woods.
x
"Okay," Pete announces after several minutes of close search of the underbrush, leaves and plants, "that's it for me; I'm done."
Myka looks back the way they'd come. The park is hardly visible for the woods, and only by the most intense stare can she identify the tree whose long hole had given them their course. "Me too."
Any weapon she'd ever known, even the highest powered rifle if one were designed to fire a .357 Magnum round, needle pointed and Teflon coated, after going through a human body, bones and all, even if it had then hit a distant tree, even supposing it could pass through said tree - it should have lodged in the seven inches of fresh wood or bounced off - it would have gone no more than a hundred inches further, not better than a hundred yards, in the course of which having left no sign.
"Well," Pete says, "I officially call 'artifact' on this one."
She can't believe he'd said it. "Ya think?"
"Well, you know Mykes, the Corps is always experimenting with new weapons," he looks around the clue-stingy woods, "but yeah."
x
She pries the rectangular Farnsworth out of her jeans pocket - if he says one word about tightness or anything else - opens it and presses the activation button. "Artie?"
By a method she's never been able to define, the ancient (1940's) Communications device instantly connects them. She's never had to manually set a frequency, and at the time the devices were invented by Filo Farnsworth, cell phones were nearly half a century away, but the man's face is the one that appears on the small viewscreen.
/What've you got?/ She and Pete share a terse report of what they've learned so far. /No gun I've ever heard of, but if it is a .357 to bore a hole 11 millimeters wide through a body and a tree, it would need a cannon's worth of powder. But the shell… I don't know, titanium or chromium may not even do it without the shell blunting at some point./
"Have you ever heard of an artifact that can do all that?"
/I will have when you bring it in./
"….Thanks."
His face disappears when he presses the button on his Farnsworth.
"Must be nice to be the boss," is Pete's concluding thought.
"Let's go back, see what Megan and the others have."
xxx
Claudia Donovan and Steve Jinks enter their Terminal at San Francisco International airport, avoiding the crowds which cut before them in every direction, some seeming, in Claudia's estimation, to create directions all their own.
"Ohhhh," Claudia stretches her smaller body as though trying to exceed her partner's dimensions. "Last, LAST, LAST time I fly Economy."
"You get used to it. The Warehouse would go bankrupt if we went First Class all the time." It had been an uncommonly quiet trip; not that he minds but he's grown quite used to his partner's unbound enthusiasm, something that's very lacking in her following the 'Cane Incident', which is the only way he allows himself to think of that nightmare night.
"True," she grants, "but think of how many Frequent Flier miles we rack up."
"This trip brings me to 387,693."
She skids to a halt in her sneakers, no easy feat, turns and grabs his wrist. "Seriously, dude?"
"I'm saving up for vacation."
"Dude, you could go to Lunar City on that!"
"We'll see. And don't call me dude."
"Okay, dudette."
He grants that he should have seen that one coming.
x
He scans the various counters. Their flight had not been particularly crowded, but there is one stand momentarily free of travelers. "Stand by here. Your cell charged?"
"Since when have you known me to go below a hundred five percent?"
"Great." He'll avoid the rest of that for as long as he can. "Let's see where we stand." With a final gesture for her to hold her place, he strides to the stand, his shield in his hand. "Good afternoon," he greets the dark blue jacketed young woman.
"Top of the morning, sir. Welcome to Aer Lingus," she replies with a brogue he could float in on that vacation he's planning.
They'd flown in on Delta, but he wants to get this done in less than a half hour. "And the rest of the day to you. ATF Special Agent Jinks. May I use your phone?"
The woman is extremely reluctant, wringing her hands. "I'm sorry, Agent Jinks, I really am, but… I don't think you'll want to use this phone."
"It's all right. Official Government business; I'll only be a moment."
"Wellllllll," she wrings them until they must hurt, "allll right, sir. But we really have been having problems. Please, don't be mad if it…."
"It's okay." He assures her again with a smile he could perhaps win a date with if he were so inclined, picks up the receiver, punches in Claudia's number. It rings twice.
/Fu《k you./ her voice says.
He keeps his expression bland, turns around as casually as he may, looks to her across the terminal, watches her as he says "This is ATF Special Agent Jinks," her eyes widen, "I've touched down in SFI." Her mouth competes with her eyes in which can open most widely. "Talk to you soon. Bye."
Though it is her voice, /Break your c*ck off/ does not match her lips before she pushes the disconnect button - hard.
He turns back to the apprehensive woman. "Thank you, Miss."
"You… had no trouble? Sir?"
"No. Well, there was a little static, you may want to have it looked into."
"Oh, sir, yes, sir!" she exclaims with a deluge of relief. She'd probably feared a very sharp axe from HR in response to his complaint. "Good day, sir, and th - thank you for flying Aer Lingus Airlines."
"Have a good day."
"Oh, thank you, Agent, you too."
x
He crosses the terminal, but Claudia is by no means as ebullient. In fact, if her honey-brown eyes could turn red again….
"I am filing a Grievance with the Regents the minute we get back," she growls. "I had no idea you could be so filthy."
"What did you hear?"
"I don't use that kind of language!"
"If this is all over the city," he ratchets his voice up a notch, "'this town needs an enema'."
She abandons the faux outrage, helped by the Joker reference. "Amen."
He walks her away, lest anyone hear too much of their quiet conversation. "We should consider a central location, where all or many of the phone lines are routed through."
"I can set up a grid search," she says, "but we'll have to be very careful in plotting the borders of this thing. I foresee a lot of pissed-off people."
x
"So, was it my voice?" he asks as they move toward the exit. The question is significant as it speaks to the power of the unknown artifact.
"When we get done, and can get home to a safe line, I'm calling your mother."
That he wasn't expecting. "Why?"
"So that the next time you visit she can wash your mouth out with soap."
"It was your voice too."
"What did I say?"
He considers telling her, but decides to have mercy. "You're right. You don't use that kind of language."