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MacIlwraith, though…
“Report to the sketchy professor and run this witch thing to the ground. Keep him quiet and try not to piss him off. I can’t stand the freaky little shit but he’s connected and he’s had his uses.”
“Report to MacIlwraith and run it to the ground.” Nelson had resigned himself to a slow, agonizing death within the bureau but being assigned as an errand boy for Felton’s other problem child was humiliating. He was already the most hated agent in the FBI. Now, he’d be a laughingstock. “Why don’t you just go ahead and—”
“And what, Nelson? I would have canned your ass after Baltimore if your father wasn’t one of the best agents I’ve ever known. You’re a disgrace but too many people respect his memory to do anything about it so I’m stuck with you.” He tossed his hand at the door and threw Nelson a sneer to go along with it. “Get out of here and see if you can find a way to shit this one down your leg too. Not that anyone’s going to care if some sorority girls got lost on their way to Burning Man.”
“I’ll see what I can do, sir.”
Nelson’s dignity remained dormant and he kept his head down as he left Felton’s office. He heard the snickers and the coughs of laughter from the bullpen but ignored them. He stayed stiff and stared at the dark gray carpet in front of his feet until he reached the elevator. Agents Bride and Carlson were waiting but they stepped aside when the doors opened, muttering that they’d get the next one. Always the pariah, Nelson stepped into the empty elevator and opened the first file as he pressed the button for the lobby.
He scanned Mila Cleary’s college transcripts and frowned. She was carrying a full-time class load and had a 4.0 GPA going into her senior year at Georgetown. He scanned as the doors opened but didn’t see any mention of a sorority or any indication that Mila was unreliable or irresponsible. She was an activist and had traveled to several protests and abroad to study but Nelson certainly wouldn’t consider her a flake or flighty.
He ignored the murmurs and coughs from the other agents milling around the lobby of the Hoover Building. Nelson couldn’t do anything about the gossip or his battered reputation so he focused on the fresh cases in front of him. He was up to his eyeballs in reports but most of those were just busy work and legitimate nuisance cases.
That was Nelson’s purview.
Felton shoveled all the slop onto Nelson, keeping him bogged down in the bullshit no one else wanted so he never saw the light of day. But this had the promise of legwork and a puzzle. And there was the possibility that Nelson might get to do something useful again.
His concern swelled and Nelson’s gut was aching by the time he reached the parking lot and leaned against the side of his Continental. Mila Cleary lived with a roommate off campus and was last seen three nights ago, leaving the school’s library just before it closed. Rachel Martin—the other missing “witch”—had been abducted five days ago. She had graduated from college and had just started an internship at a magazine. She was a photographer and a poet and Nelson saw nothing to suggest that she’d abandon a project just before a deadline, as stated in one of the witnesses’ statements.
Nelson’s instincts told him that these girls hadn’t run off to Burning Man or into the woods for whatever it was that Felton was imagining. They were both known to read tarot cards, collect crystals, and meditate but there was no mention of any connections to any cults or an organized coven from what Nelson was seeing. Collecting crystals and reading tarot cards didn’t necessarily mean they were witches but Mila and Rachel shared a lot more than an interest in the occult. Both were in their early twenties and were attractive. They had long red hair and were what Nelson would consider average height but curvy, based on their most recent photos.
His confidence buckled almost as soon as his ass hit his car seat. Nelson’s gaze flicked to the rearview mirror and he asked himself what would happen if he exercised a little self-preservation for once and did what was expected of him. The bureau didn’t want Sharon Cleary raising the alarm and leaning on her connections in the media and Washington D.C. And Felton wanted MacIlwraith quiet and happy.
There was MacIlwraith. They called him the Sketchy Professor because he looked like the frontman of a punk band and occasionally lurked around the Hoover Building, babbling about conspiracies and cults. MacIlwraith wasn’t completely sketchy, though. He was a thorn in the bureau’s side because he was blunt and didn’t pay attention to protocol or politics. But MacIlwraith was also considered a brilliant anthropologist, despite his young age and being so unorthodox. The professor was an expert on all things occult and had become a bit of a celebrity after assisting on a few high-profile cases and a Netflix documentary labeled him the bureau’s “cult whisperer.”
Nelson had never had the opportunity to consult with MacIlwraith and had only seen him in passing and on television. But the peculiar academic had a reputation of being difficult to work with and unpredictable. He was rumored to be creepy and possibly psychic and a witch, but the FBI sent for MacIlwraith the moment a pentacle was spotted at a crime scene or at the first mention of brainwashing.
Everything about MacIlwraith rubbed Nelson the wrong way and there was nowhere to go but downward and at a high velocity from a professional standpoint. Nelson would become an absolute laughing stock as MacIlwraith’s sidekick or he’d piss off Felton by catching a real case and possibly embarrassing the FBI again. If Nelson was smart, he’d convince MacIlwraith and Sharon Cleary that the cases weren’t related and find at least one—but ideally both—of the girls safe and sound. Then, Nelson could go back to his miserable existence at the bureau until he was able to retire.
In sixteen years.
His father had pulled strings and got Nelson into the FBI Academy a year early and made sure there was a spot in the Hoover Building for him. Agent Grady Nelson Sr. had regretted that almost immediately. Nelson exposed some hazing at the academy and got several cadets suspended. Then, during his first year at the Hoover Building, Nelson tripped right into a ring of senior agents running an extortion operation at the port. His first task force was supposed to be Nelson’s chance to redeem himself, but he had listened to his gut and had done the “right” thing in Baltimore. He stopped a low-level mafia hit and had saved at least one life, but the FBI hadn’t rewarded him for blowing months of surveillance to stop a hit. And he wasn’t getting another chance after turning in his last partner for banging an informant. Nelson had once again blown an investigation and made the department look like a shit show. After that, his father had washed his hands of Nelson.
“It’s not that I’m ashamed of you, son. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just had higher hopes, is all.”
“I won’t do the smart thing,” Nelson predicted with a heavy sigh. He started the car and Nelson’s stomach was already sour and tight as he backed out of his spot. “I’m going to piss Felton off again and this time he will can me.”
Nelson’s gut was yelling by the time he parked and jogged across the courtyard in front of Georgetown University’s Healy Hall. He turned over the details of Mila’s and Rachel’s lives and last days as he drove and it didn’t make sense to him, writing both cases off as nuisances and unrelated. Unless there was a reason Felton or the bureau wanted both cases to go away.
There was also the possibility that someone was counting on Nelson to compromise the investigation. And it wouldn’t be hard to discredit an already disgraced agent if Nelson did cross Felton or the author of the Post-it note. He felt like he was doomed as he passed through the red brick hallway, searching for the anthropology department. The gray sky and the gathering clouds over the campus added to the general air of foreboding so Nelson popped an antacid into his mouth once he’d found the right door.
Professor Lennox MacIlwraith wasn’t the head of the anthropology department, but he was its most celebrated faculty member thanks to his high-profile work with the FBI. According to the professor’s assistant, Ava, MacIlwraith was wrapping up his final lecture of the afternoon and was looking forward to meeting with Nelson. She directed him to the proper lecture hall and the professor’s TA was waiting in the corridor to escort Nelson.
“You’re in for a treat! Professor Mac’s discussing fire symbology in ancient mythology,” Tony, the TA, whispered excitedly, their footsteps echoing on the marble floors.
Nelson slipped into the room and noticed that all but a few of the students in the back row were sitting forward in their seats, spellbound. Nelson was as well as he sank into the nearest seat and rested his forearms on the desk in front of him.
“Now, take the bird god, Bennu.” MacIlwraith was slouched against the edge of the long wooden desk at the front of the room but his arms swept through the air, mimicking wings and flames. He was dressed in a baggy, ratty charcoal sweater, distressed black jeans, and combat boots. His hair was jet black and flopped over his dark eyes but MacIlwraith was enthralling as he animatedly described the ancient precursor to the phoenix myth. “Bennu is believed to be a familiar of the god Ra and the spirit that powered all creation. Later, our friend, Herodotus immortalized Bennu by describing it as a giant gold and red bird, born anew every day, like the sun!” His hands swept through the air in front of him and there were startled gasps as flames jumped from MacIlwraith’s fingertips.
More of a magician than a witch, I think…
But Nelson was still impressed as MacIlwraith went to the chalkboard and quickly drew several different examples of flame iconography, ranging from Egyptian to Celtic to Aztec.
“Fire is both destruction and rebirth but it can also represent power and immortality. Next week, we’re learning about water symbols and sirens, starting with El Naddaha of the Nile. Don’t forget to submit your topics for approval by Friday. That’s it, my precious pupils. Be brave, but be safe.”
The rapt silence of the auditorium was broken by the sounds of bags being jerked open and stuffed with books and hushed chatter as students packed up and cleared out. Nelson stood but hung back as students filed past him. Not every student, though. A young woman sidled up to the professor’s desk, hugging a book and coyly twisting the tattered sleeve of her oversized black sweater. She had paired it with black fishnet tights and combat boots and her indigo blue curls were pulled into a messy bun. Nelson was reminded of a young Helena Bonham Carter and grew concerned when she batted wide, fan-like black lashes at MacIlwraith as he turned to acknowledge her.
