SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

“Someone… something strong and powerful.” He shook his head. “I should have anticipated this.” He ate another piece of apple, then asked, “How is it you came to be here?”

“Enrique.”

“The old man? He retired two months ago.” He paused, his eyes widening. “Is he all right?”

“Afraid not. Enrique is dead.”

“What happened?”

“My guess is that he had a bone demon inside him as well.”

Everett straightened. His long face looked even longer. “And we thought he was just getting old… maybe a little dementia. You say he was possessed?”

I nodded.

He brought his hand down hard on the table. “How could this happen? We’re trained to protect against such things.”

“We’re here to get to the bottom of it. But tell me, how did the demon get inside you? Did you touch the box?”

“What box? No, I never touched it, I…” He stared out the window for a moment. “I remember I couldn’t breathe. I fell. I saw someone’s feet. I tried to move but I couldn’t and-” He turned to me. “I was drugged — gassed!”

I glanced at Gomer, who stood at the back door, smoking. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“That would explain why you weren’t able to defend yourself. When the demon was inside you, did you — were you able to see anything?”

He turned to stare at me. “You’ve been possessed before, haven’t you?”

I frowned at the memories. “Once or twice.”

He looked long and hard at me, then shook his head. “This was my first time. I was surprised at how… how…”

“Seductive. Seductive is the word you’re looking for.”

He snapped his fingers. “Yes. How seductive. It got so close to me that I didn’t know where I ended and it began. I saw some of its memories, which meant it saw some of mine as well.” He stood, went to the sink, made a V with two fingers and spit through them. “I’m not looking forward to the report I’m going to have to file.”

“I think we can wait on that until we conclude the investigation, don’t you think, Major?”

He nodded grudgingly. “I remember a figure. Tall, wearing a suit, very distinguished. It had boots like something from the Victorian era. Something about the face, though. It’s a blur. It wouldn’t stop moving.”

“Obfuscation is a very powerful ability. It might explain how it got past your defenses. You’re what, a Level III Cerberus?”

“Two,” he said.

“I thought The Bohemian Grove was a Level III position.”

“It is. I was frocked to Level III, but I haven’t been through any of the training or certifications.”

I tried hard not to roll my eyes. “Government,” I muttered, which said it all, and to which he nodded sadly. No use getting angry at Everett. He was just doing what he was told.

I told him what I knew of the Stasi connection to the local caterer.

“Do you know which caterer?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Our information came from a decoded Soviet cable. It only indicated that the Stasi had someone inside a catering company that works with The Grove.”

“I might be able to assist. We keep records of all the caterers and vendors and such.” He paused as he seemed to consider something. “Do you think it might be connected with my possession?” He asked.

“I’m going to have to plan that it is.” I turned to Gomer. “Call Doris and see if there’s been any contact with Major Pretty Boy Floyd.”

Gomer gave me a look like he had no idea what I was talking about, then I could see the lights go on. He chuckled and headed for the phone.

“Who do you normally report to at The Grove?”

“Frank Montesonti,” he said. “He’s an ex-San L.A. cop. He runs a tight ship.”

“I bet he’s going to wonder where you’ve been.”

His eyes went wide as he sat up, then he sagged back into the chair. “I’m really going to have to report this, aren’t I?”

“Afraid so. But let’s keep big NSA out of it for now and report it only to Montesonti. In fact, I think it’s best if we did it in person.”

BOHEMIAN GROVE

July 9, 1970

Afternoon

Security was already beginning to tighten as we approached. Bohemian Highway and Highway 116 had checkpoints. Local police and highway patrol were only allowing people through who either lived in the town of Monte Rio or had official business with The Grove. Everett got us through them all. Burgess parked our sedan in front of an already crowded welcome lodge right before the main gate on Bohemian Avenue.

Inside was a madhouse of vendors, contractors, caterers, and newly-hired Bohemian staff requiring badges. At the center of the madness was a bear of a man with close-cut white hair and a cigar permanently affixed to the corner of his mouth — Frank Montesonti. We pushed our way through using our badges, briefly explained the situation, then he waved us on with the stern warning that we had better do our jobs.

On the way out I spied three men seated on a bench, handcuffed. All of them had press badges hanging from their necks. I guess this was the one place that the rich and famous didn’t want to be seen in the newspapers.