Witches Protection Program

W
es Rockville stared bleakly out the
dirt
-encrusted window into the overcast day. Muffled horns could be heard through the glass. The
late
-afternoon sun peeked through the tall buildings, painting the streets of Manhattan with touches of gold. He squinted, his broad face crinkling. The bruise on his jaw still pained him, reminding him of his failure. The purple mark had faded in the past three weeks, but he felt the ache deep in his bones. He scrubbed the top of his head. His wiry blond hair sprang to attention with its military cut. Close shaven on the sides, the jarhead he stubbornly groomed failed, the wavy curls softening the top of his
well
-shaped head. He tried to make out the billboard across the way, but in his state of mind, the words appeared like a jumbled puzzle, and he didn’t have the patience to put them in order.

Harris rushed in without looking at him. His white shirt was wrinkled, and he had sweat rings under his armpits. His bald head reflected the dull lighting. His
deep
-set eyes were shaded by
iron
-gray eyebrows that grew comically outward like a ledge. The older man threw his files with disgust onto the cluttered desk, his deep voice growling. “Gone!”

Blue eyes met blue eyes. Wes looked down before his superior continued, his large shoulders hunching in despair. His
six
-foot-three frame slid low in the seat. “Three years at the state police level.”

“Do we have to do this?” Wes mumbled.

“Quiet!” Harris ordered. “You passed all written tests.”

“We know this,” Wes responded sulkily.

“Is that a whine, Rockville? As I was saying, you were
cherry
-picked for this department. The youngest recruit. I personally vouched for you.” Harris leaned forward, his hairy knuckles pressed on the messy stacks of reports on the desk. “It was too soon. I should have left you in the office, but I wanted to avoid putting you where there was excessive paperwork. It’s that reading thing; it always holds you back.”

“That was disclosed on my application,” Wes said coldly. “It’s not an issue, sir. I have mastered my disability.”

“That may be true, but I feel that I rushed you. This is an elite agency. Only the best are recruited,” Harris said, more to himself than to the younger man.

“Are you saying that I don’t measure up with the rest of your team?” Wes asked.

“You put me in a terrible position. My own reputation has been brought under scrutiny.”

“I’m sorry,” Wes said, his voice low.

“You’re sorry!” Harris yelled, the purple vein bulging on his pale forehead. Wes stared at it with fascination.

“See something interesting? Look at my face. Look at me, Wesley!” Harris was seething.

Wes gazed up.

“You couldn’t transport one little old lady,” said Harris.

Wes sank lower into the chair, his eyes downcast. “I don’t know what happened.”

“You don’t know what happened? I’ll tell you what happened!” A bubble of saliva gathered at the corner of Harris’s mouth but exploded off his face as he shouted. “We said, ‘Don’t look her in the eyes!’”

“I didn’t. I mean, I might have,
but
—”

“But nothing. You’re a disgrace. Your sister is the most distinguished prosecutor in New York City.” Harris fell back into his leather chair, his voice losing steam. He pulled an
eight
-by-ten picture from the side of his desk and pointed to a handsome blond man beaming in a family picture. “Your brother is head of counterterrorism.” He placed the photo carefully back in its place. Sighing, he rubbed his face. “We’re in a goddamn building named for your grandfather.”

“I know, Dad.”

“Don’t ‘I know, Dad’ me.” He held out a large, square hand. “You have placed my ass on the line with your incompetence! Don’t expect any special treatment.”

“I’m not expecting to be treated any differently than anybody else.” Wes bit back the rest of his response. It would be nice not to be picked on because of his circumstances, either.

“You know, I tolerated the episode with the goat.”

Wes fought the grin that tugged at his lips.

“Oh, you think that’s funny? Your mother didn’t think so.”

“Getting him into the dorm was a lot harder than getting him out.”

Harris shook his head. “This never happened with your brother.”

Wes looked away, the smile fading from his face.
Here it comes,
he thought. The comparisons with Andrew. Good old Andy, boy wonder. Top of his class, unbeatable athlete; no matter how hard he worked, he never needed a shave. Every hair was always in place; his teeth were so white, they gleamed in the dark. Resentment filled Wes’s gut as his face heated with shame. In truth, Andrew never competed with him; he didn’t have to. All he had to do was show up. Wes had given up trying to meet Andy’s bar years ago. The only one who seemed to understand was Wes’s mother. She fostered peace in the house, refusing to allow her husband’s tough love to intimidate Wes. His father must have been thinking the same thing because Wes heard him mutter, “She always coddled you. Never let you grow up.”

Wes heard his father sigh yet again. He looked up to find the older man studying him intently.

“That’s not true,” Wes said, defending both himself and his mother.

“Hand me your badge,” he said softly. He meant business.

“Aw, come on…” The words froze on his lips when he saw the ice in his father’s eyes. In complete silence, Wes dejectedly handed his father the badge he had worked hard to earn. He had made it to this special arm of the police, which had been founded by his grandfather over fifty years
ago
—his lifelong dream. It was an undercover branch of a federal division created to do jobs that local law enforcement couldn’t handle. Words clogged his throat; his jaw ticked in sync with that of the other man in the room. He swallowed, biting back the choking sensation of disbelief.

“You disappointed me, your family, and the entire force.” Harris sputtered for a minute. “I knew you weren’t ready. I shouldn’t have sent you into the field.”

“Can’t you cut me some slack? It was my first assignment. There has to be a learning curve,” Wes said reasonably.

“No excuses. Learning curve, my ass. With your background, this should have been a walk in the park.” Harris paused, his jaw grinding. “There’s no room for that kind of bullshit in what we do. The only way you’re going to survive this debacle is by embracing it.”

“I’m not being fired?” Wes asked, hope filling his chest.

“Nope.” His father sat silently, his chair turned so he could look at the fading daylight.

Wes gritted his teeth with impatience. If he wasn’t being fired, what was going to happen? He looked at the collection of photos on the wall and cabinet behind his father. Pictures of his sister, Lauren, at a podium at her graduation, the valedictorian of Yale, then being sworn in to the bar. His brother, with his unit in Iraq, or maybe it was Afghanistan; another of him surfing in Phuket Beach and climbing some mountain in Tibet. He focused on his own graduation picture, a small one from his school in Potsdam on a tiny corner of the wall. He glanced at the family photo. His eyes found the youngest boy in the picture, standing beside his slight mother, pushed into the corner by his
larger
-than-life father, his brother’s hulking muscles casting him into the shade. They were all brilliant. Each one of them had the ability to excel at everything they
did
—that is, except for him. Everything took him longer, from learning to ride a bicycle to reading a book. They didn’t understand that the words were jumbled. He had to slowly put them in the right order before he could proceed. Mr. Wayne in fourth grade had armed him with a trick so that with a little extra concentration, he could work things out with no one the wiser. His parents knew, of course. It didn’t matter; he was expected to perform, so he worked longer with a driven intensity to succeed. He studied hard to pass; he spent hours at the gym to be able to master every physical test. Many times, others grumbled that his name earned him his grades at the academy, but Wes knew it was the result of working his butt off.

His father’s harsh voice interrupted his musings. “You are being reassigned.”

“I don’t want to be reassigned.” Wes stood, pacing the room. “This was my dream. Give me another chance, Dad.”

“Believe me, son. This hurts me more than it hurts you.”

Yeah, sure,
Wes thought.
Why do they always say that?
This couldn’t be happening; he was
twenty
-five and had spent his entire life training for this job. “This is ridiculous! What, are you gonna send me to my room without dinner?”

“You have left me no choice. If I don’t do something, the commissioner will bring me up on report,” his father said, his eyes boring into Wes’s. Harris scribbled a number and then held out a scrap of paper to Wes. “I’m sending you to DUMBO.”

Wes laughed. “Like in the circus?”

His father sat back. “This isn’t funny. Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. In Brooklyn. Memorize the address and phone number, then burn it. Oh, and ask for Alastair. Alastair Verne.”

West stared at the paper, the faint handwriting swimming before his eyes. “Give me one more chance.”

“This is your only chance. Blow this, and you’re completely out. Not even your mother will be able to help you.”

Head down, Wes didn’t see his father’s blue eyes soften. Harris cleared his throat. “Remember what I said, Wes. Memorize and burn it. Alastair’s waiting for you.”

CHAPTER ONE

W
es took the subway to Brooklyn, his stomach reminding him that he had missed both lunch and dinner. It was late, and the streets were deserted. His shoes slapped the pavement as he checked the brownstones for the address. He searched the block, noting the numbers skipped the address he’d memorized. Panic welled in his chest, and he wondered if he reversed the numbers with his scrambled brain.
Thirty
-four oh five, then oh six, then oh nine. What happened to oh seven and oh eight?
Squeezing his eyes, he racked his mind to recreate the address. Nothing came back but the phone number. Dragging out his cell, he punched the digits, cursing when a recording came on. He was too late. He should have cabbed it. The office was closed.

“What? What, what?” he said. A truck passed, its noisy exhaust drowning the message. Wes ambled to a darkened corner of the street, pressing the phone to his ear to make sure he heard the message correctly. He stared absently at the setting sun that washed the sky to a faint pink. The light wind ruffled his jacket, sending a chill down his spine. It was an unfriendly street; there was not a pedestrian, baby carriage, or even a delivery bicycle in sight. The policeman in Wes scoured the facade of the brownstones, looking for a hint of life. There was not even a chirping bird. The sound of cars racing overhead created a
wind
-tunnel effect, so the whole place had an unearthly air.

“The line you’ve called is currently out of service.” Shit, he messed up. He blew air through his lips in a rush. “Please leave a message after the beep.”

Closing his eyes wearily, he repeated the number again, then looked back at his phone, the glare painting his face blue. The sun disappeared, bathing the entire street in gloomy shadows. Wes shivered in the cold.
Wait a minute.
He paused.
What line that’s out of service takes messages?
He redialed the number. Wes anticipated the beep and held the phone close to his mouth. He said softly, “Alastair? This is Wes.”

* * *

His phone buzzed with an interrupting incoming call. Swiping his finger, he heard a woman’s voice say, “Rockville?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed.

“Look to the basement. To the left of
thirty
-four oh six. See the green light?”

A pinpoint of light about the size of an eraser blinked twice. “Come on, Rockville. You’re late, and I want to go home.”

Tentatively, he headed down the grimy steps, a buzzer sounding as he turned the ancient handle of the door. He stood silently, his eyes adjusting to the bright light after the dim stairwell. There was an ocean of cubicles that seemed to stretch for a mile. The subtle sound of phones ringing became a steady thrum. An older woman with a lopsided bun and
half
-moon,
cat
-shaped bifocals greeted him. Friendly eyes looked at him above the lenses.

“You’re Harris Rockville’s kid.” She had a smoker’s voice, gravelly, and had enough hair on her chin to qualify for a beard. She pulled a pen from her messy hair, noted something on her clipboard, and cracked her gum. Wes looked up, his surprise making her grin. “Yeah, it’s shocking, right? You never expected to see such a
state
-of-the-art office in this dump.” She laughed. “You better make time. Alastair’s waiting for you, and he don’t wait for nobody. My name’s Bathsheba, by the way.”

“Bathsheba, right,” Wes said absently as he took in his surroundings.

There were dozens of people working. The hum of voices droned into white noise. Television screens with grids and charts hung overhead. Wes noticed they were maps of cities with dots indicating tracking of some kind.

“Follow me, kid.” She led him down a gray hallway with
mulberry
-colored carpet, more plush than anything he’d ever seen in a governmental office. The place had to be a city block wide, with corridors branching off to other conduits. Here and there, a doorway opened. Wes saw that many were filled with groups of people sitting at polished conference tables. Some rooms were dark, with shades drawn, the light of a presentation on screens peeking through the slats of the blinds. Staff walked through the hallways, nodding to each other. Some were in pairs. All had a badge hanging on a chain or attached to a pocket. He squinted, but he couldn’t make out the impression on the shield. Forget about attempting to read it. He shrugged; while it looked official, it was unfamiliar. For a person who grew up with an entire family in law enforcement, he found it odd that he’d never seen it before.

“What is this place?” he asked.

“This is where the magic happens,” she told him cryptically.

She opened the door, whispering, “Prepare to be amazed.” Then, with a giant pop of her gum, she disappeared.

“Where…” Wes turned, looking for the woman, but couldn’t see her anywhere. “Where is…”

“Oh, she’s gone. Come in already,” a male voice ordered impatiently.

Wes spun to the speaker, his eyes settling on a small man seated at a glass desk. He was in a neat gray suit but wore a black turtleneck, which made him look like some odd, eccentric leftover from the beatnik generation. He was older than Wes’s father, Wes guessed somewhere north of sixty, with the thickening middle of a sedentary life, a tanned complexion, and silver hair. His chubby face sported a neatly trimmed goatee. Wes wondered where his beret might be. The man studied Wes with interested black eyes that glowed with merriment.

“What kind of department is this?”

“Mr. Wesley Paul Rockville. Son of Harris and Melinda, brother to Lauren and Andrew. Tough act to follow. Runt of the litter?”

Wes bristled, wondering where this
pint
-size dude got off calling him a runt. At six foot three, he was hardly considered small. “I fail to see what this has got to do with my reassignment,” he said icily.

The older man ignored him. “The young gun who had his free will sucked right out of him.”

“No one took my free will!” Wes shouted, his face hot.

“I think Miss Genevieve Fox did a pretty nice number on you.”

“What are you talking about?”

Alastair cocked his head, a smile playing on his lips.

“I don’t think this is funny, um…Alastair. I’m getting out of here.” Wes had had enough. He was pissed and hungry.

“Sit down, Agent Rockville. It’s time you learned about your new assignment.”

Wes stood, the muscle in his jaw ticking, his teeth grinding. He took a deep breath, plopping into the leather chair opposite the
strange
-looking man. “This doesn’t look like any government agency I’ve ever seen.” He relaxed, allowing his legs to twist the chair so he moved with nervous energy.

Alastair sat quietly, observing Wes’s bouncing leg. Wes forced himself to stop moving.

“We are quite secret, I assure you. What did your father tell you?”

Wes’s lips compressed in a mutinous line.

“I asked you a question,” the older man said quietly.

“He told me I was being reassigned here, and if it doesn’t work out, then I’m finished.”

Alastair nodded. He sat back, his short, stubby fingers idly rolling an expensive pen. Wes gazed at the large, oblique window, staring at his bored reflection.

“Your former position was in a branch of the police founded by your grandfather. Only the best are selected.”

“I know my family history,” Wes said rudely. “Are you implying that I was unqualified?”

Alastair ignored Wes’s response. “We are a sort of extension of that unit. A Black Ops, if you will.”

“You’re delusional,” Wes said, leaning back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his flat stomach. He shook his head slowly. “There’s no such thing as Black Ops with policing organizations. Besides, if I wanted to be in Black Ops, I would have joined the army.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Alastair said. “What do you know about witches?”

Wes turned to look at him, his face puzzled. “Witches? You mean like Halloween?”

Alastair sat forward, his face intent. “No.” He shook his head. “I’m talking about
broom
-flying,
caldron
-stirring,
soul
-sucking,
mean
-spirited witches who wreak havoc on society.”

“Is this a joke?” Wes was not amused. “Because if my brother put you up to this, I don’t think it’s funny.”

“Miss Fox was a
witch
—a bad one, category eight, ten being the worst.” Wes made a rude noise, but the older man continued as if he hadn’t heard it. “She looked you right in the eye and disintegrated your free will.”

Wes stood. “This is ridiculous. She hypnotized me and every man on that bus.”

Alastair shook his head. “Is that what they told you?”

He pointed his pen into Wes’s face, and Wes felt the intensity of a light beam burning his retina. He turned his head. “Cut that out.”

“You want something to drink?” He opened his bottom drawer, taking out a silver flask. Wes refused. “Take a sip. You’re going to need it.”

Wes grudgingly took the container, sipping carefully at the contents. It was Frangelica, hazelnut liqueur, sweet and nutty, strangely relaxing. It hit his empty stomach with the force of a bazooka. “We’re a bit new to be drinking buddies.”

Alastair laughed as he took a healthy swig. “Oh, rest assured. We are not drinking buddies, but you’re going to need this by the time we’re through. Some of what you are going to learn is a bit…hard to swallow.”

Alastair rose and came around the desk. He perched his hip on the corner as if he were sharing a cozy story. The room had a strange intimacy, closed off from the rest of the world. “The program you are so fortunate to be a part of was established many years ago to protect witches.”

“You’re crazy, dude.” Wes smiled lazily.

“Not so crazy. They’ve been around for years, living underground, hiding their abilities. But that is just the tip of the iceberg. The history of witches and our country goes way back. Please pay attention to the monitor.” Alastair gestured to the far wall. Wes noticed he aimed a remote at the blank space.

Images flickered on a screen Wes hadn’t noticed was there. It filled the room with
cinema
-quality actors, and Wes stretched out his long legs, getting comfortable.

It was in
black
-and-white, grainy documentary style. The words
Salem, Massachusetts, 1692
identified the time period. Fields of corn and small cottages: clearly New England during colonial times. Villagers milled about primitive streets. Wes admired the realism of the set. The camera focused on an old crone scrabbling through
packed
-dirt streets. She was short; her basket rested on her ample hips, and her face was hidden by a mob cap. A man’s gravelly voice spoke as the scene changed to a
one
-room farmhouse, where a woman bent over a boy who lay sweating on a cot.

“I knew we shouldn
’t
-a let Goody Prudence in with her potions.”

“We had no choice, husband. Daniel’s fever still rises,” his wife told him, dashing a tear from her gaunt cheeks. “I know not what to do.”

The man stood before a huge hearth, his foot resting on a fender. He stabbed at the logs, his face angry. “The boy doesn’t improve even with her potions! I never should have listen to ye.” He bit hard on his pipe, his dark eyes squinting in the dim light of the cottage. “Aye, she’s evil, that one. John Darby told me so, he did. Aye, her with her potions. They be poison, and she done kilt the boy.”

The woman gripped her stomach, howling with misery. “Never say so, husband. I trusted Goody Prudence.” She paused, looking forlornly at her sick child, her face twisted with anguish. “Mayhaps he’ll improve.”

“His breathing worsens. Why did you bring her?”

“She birthed our boy. Her herbs have worked before.”

“Kilt John Darby’s cow,” the man said, his eyes boring into hers. “Fought over the north pasture. Don’t ye remember, Bess? The magistrate ruled for Darby. She gave him the evil eye then.”

Bess considered her husband’s words, then said slowly, “Aye, I remember. She be staring at me fierce. Did you see the mark on her chin?” she added maliciously.

“The cow died. Now our boy.” He rested his head on his arms and leaned on the wooden mantle of the fireplace. “She be a witch,” he said quietly.

The room dissolved to a street scene. The older woman was harried by a group of men holding lanterns and pikes. Wes sighed, thinking he wanted to laugh, but he had to admit he was curious. A familiar voice that sounded like an actress he had seen in a movie the night before narrated more of the story.
She must be slumming,
he thought with a snicker.

“People believed that many women had powers that could render others sick, ruin harvests, even kill livestock. It was a ghastly time, and nobody was safe from these accusations.”

“It’s that Jennifer An…” Wes said with astonishment. “You know, what’s her name? The actress from that show everybody loves? What kind of budget do you guys have?”

“Shh,” Alastair admonished him.

The saga continued with the old lady running through dense foliage, her clothing ripped. Dogs barked in the distance.

“You have any popcorn here?” Wes asked. Alastair ignored him.

“Anyone could be branded a witch,” the voiceover went on. “Once they were accused, they lost everything from their farms to their families, and
finally
—”

Wes winced as the old woman was captured and beaten. This was rather graphic for a training film. He squirmed uncomfortably.

“—their lives,” the narrator finished. The screen filled with scuffed and worn boots dangling from a tree.

“OK, I’ve seen enough.” Wes stifled a yawn; he hated history. His stomach rumbled.

“No, you haven’t. We can’t move on until you fully understand what we are doing here,” Alastair informed him curtly.

A courtroom was the next scene. Two groups of women were standing before a high bench. An imperious judge, clad in black with a
white
-scrolled wig, stared down his long nose at them. As the camera panned the room, Wes realized that half the women looked clean and attractive, while the other group was scruffy and unkempt.

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