Who Are Those Guys?

Jamal’s phone startled him awake. 2:02 AM – he knew before he looked at the caller ID it would be Detective Gregson. “We’ve got another victim,” she said curtly. “Head out Highway 31 towards Grand Ave. You can’t miss it.” Then she hung up.

Twenty minutes later, the team was heading to the scene. As Gregson had predicted, it was impossible to miss: a collection of flashing lights from police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks. Among them was a truck from PSEG Long Island. The party parked on the shoulder and approached, finding Det. Gregson in a heated discussion with a man in a hard hat and PSEG jacket. She turned away in disgust. “They’re going to need at least another 30 minutes before they can shut off the power,” she said to an officer standing beside her. Then she spotted the party and came to join them. “Thanks for coming. The body’s up there.” They followed her pointing finger, and saw a shape outlined by floodlights, dangling from the top of a high-tension electrical tower, at least 20 yards up in the air.

“We think we know who the victim is,” Gregson continued. “At 11 PM we got a call from an alarm service about a possible break-in at an address in town. Officers arrived at the scene and entered the home when there was no response. Upstairs, they found a woman conscious but unresponsive on the floor. The French doors of the second floor bedroom had been shattered, and there were signs of a struggle. Neighbors identified the woman as Sandra Harrogate, but said that her 17-year old daughter Lauren should also have been in the home. The room that was broken into was Lauren’s bedroom. We secured the scene, but before we could do a thorough search we got a call from a motorist about sparks from this electrical tower and someone possibly electrocuted. I feared the worst, and my partner and I came straight here. As soon as I saw the body up there, I called PSEG and then called Santorini – he made it clear that if there was another victim, he wanted to be the first to examine it. PSEG says it’s not safe to go up there until they shut down the power, and apparently they can’t do that without doing a bunch of other stuff first. So we wait …”

Some 20 minutes later, the lights in the distant town went dark, and the PSEG truck rumbled into action. Dr. Santorini had arrived in the meantime, and climbed into the truck’s bucket, which extended up to the dangling body. Santorini examined the body for about 20 minutes before descending. Then the bucket went back up with an EMT to secure a harness around the victim to lower her back to the ground. Like the other victims, her head and spine were missing, her body an almost unrecognizable wreckage of bloody flesh and bones. Santorini bagged the body and loaded it into a waiting ambulance. “I’ll perform the autopsy tomorrow afternoon, probably around 2:00, if you want to attend,” he said with a yawn as he left.

Gregson was still overseeing this crime scene; her officers were searching the area (unsuccessfully) for the missing head or any other clues. But she gave the team the Harrowgate’s address and gave them permission to conduct a search of the house. The Harrowgates lived in an elegant two-story Georgian home overlooking the Bay. An officer stood guard at the front door, and nodded to the team as they arrived. Joe and Jamal began a circuit of the grounds. The expansive back yard sloped down to a 20-foot drop-off to the water. On the second floor, they could see a small wrought-iron balcony; behind it was a gaping hole in the wall where a door had presumably once been. There were no obvious footprints or signs of a ladder being used to access the balcony.

As Thomas and Garrett waited for their partners to return, a middle-aged woman in a robe was led out of the house to a waiting ambulance. She stared uncomprehendingly straight ahead, oblivious to all around her. She did not respond to any questions or stimuli. “Where are you taking her?” Garrett asked one of the EMTs. “Swansea Psychiatric Institute,” was the reply. “She was huddled on the floor in the doorway to her daughter’s bedroom when the police got here. Must’ve seen whatever happened to her daughter. She’s been like this since we arrived – completely catatonic.”

Joe and Jamal completed their circuit, having seen nothing out of the ordinary, and the group entered the house. Upstairs, the bedroom at the back of the house had been cordoned off with police tape. Inside was a teenage girl’s bedroom: pink bedspread, stuffed animals on the bed, music group posters on the wall. The bed covers were disheveled, pillows knocked onto the floor. A pair of French doors on the far wall had been broken inward, wood splintered and shards of shattered glass covering the floor. Not only the doors were shattered, but the frame of the door itself had been pushed in, the studs broken and splintered. A spray of blood was flung across the ceiling and part of one wall, and a small pool of blood was congealing on the floor among the broken glass.

Jamal made a beeline for the broken doors. They opened onto a small, mostly decorative, balcony overlooking the back lawn. “Holy crap!” he exclaimed as he examined the balcony. “The iron railing is bent inwards!” He shined a flashlight on the splintered wood of the doorframe. “Hey! There’s some gray stuff on this wood. It looks like the stuff Santorini got from under the victims’ fingernails.” He retrieved his medical bag and scraped some samples into a test tube.

Garrett was standing motionless in the doorway, surveying the room. Something wasn’t right, and he wasn’t quite sure what it was. “Everybody just hold still a second,” he said quietly, and the others froze in place. Seconds ticked by as he scanned the room, taking in the details. “So we think something came in through the window,” he said, more to himself than to the others, “with enough force to shatter the doors. And it had to be big, to shatter the doorframe and bend the metal railing. It grabbed the girl, then turned and went back out the way it came in.” The others were nodding; Garrett’s assessment matched their own. “But something’s not right,” he continued. “Look at the glass.” Shards of glass, most no larger than a fingernail, were scattered across the hardwood floor. “There’s no disturbance. The floor isn’t scratched. If something had burst in here, grabbed Lauren, then turned and launched itself back out, it would have left some kind of marks, or its wings would have blown the glass into rows or something. But there’s nothing. The physics just don’t make sense.” The others looked at the evidence in front of them and wondered, not for the first time, what they hell they were dealing with.

Thomas had checked Lauren’s laptop, but it was password protected, and he didn’t have the time or the tools with him to try to crack it. Sighing, he turned away, then turned slowly back. Some asymmetry had caught his eye, and he realized that the bed was very slight askew from the wall, probably bumped out of place during the attack. He moved to the bed and immediately hit pay dirt; trapped between the head of the bed and the wall was a cellphone in a pink glitter case. “I’ve got her phone!” he exclaimed, and crossed his fingers as he swiped it awake. Unlike her laptop, Lauren’s phone had no password, and he immediately began searching for recent activity. He checked her photos and audio recordings first, hoping against hope she had somehow recorded the attack, but struck out. Then he opened her messages. “She got a text message just a few hours before she was taken,” he said, and held the phone out for everyone to see.

“Sounds like normal teenage drama,” Jamal said with a huff.

“Maybe,” Garrett said, “or maybe it was more. Any idea who this ‘Heather’ is?” There was no additional information in Lauren’s phone contacts. Jamal used the FBI phone Carson had given them to run a trace on Heather’s number; it was registered to a Peter Lonigan, with an address here in Glenridge. “Maybe the cops will know who he is.”

By now, it was nearly daylight, but everyone was too wired to go back to sleep. They went to the Dewdrop Inn (which catered to the early-morning working fishermen) and drank coffee until 8. By now it was light enough that Thomas could use the drone he’d brought to do an aerial search of the Harrowgate grounds and surrounding bay. Joe dropped Thomas and Garrett back at the house, then he and Jamal went to the police station. Detective Gregson was there, but had no information on Peter Lonigan or any ‘Heather’. “There have to be at least a dozen Heathers in town. Your best bet would be to go to the high school. Somebody there should know who Lauren’s friends were.”

With Jamal grumbling about ‘useless locals’, Joe drove to Glenridge High School. Word of Lauren’s death was obviously already all over town. As they approached the school, they could see groups of red-eyed students clustered about the lawn, and “WE LOVE YOU LAUREN” posters already lining the school entrance, along with flowers, teddy bears, and blown up photos of the victim (at least they assumed it’s the victim, since the body was missing its head). They were escorted to the Principal’s office. Principal Marjorie LaCroix was pale, her hands shaking. “We’ve never had to deal with something like this at our school,” she said as the pair took their seats. “Lauren was such a wonderful girl – this is just unimaginable.”

“We understand this is hugely difficult,” Joe said in his most comforting manner. “We’re here to help. We want to help you help Lauren. What can you tell us about her?”

“Lauren was a model student – cheerleader, chorus, honor roll. She was taking several AP courses. She was never in any kind of trouble and had lots of friends.”

“What about someone named ‘Heather’?” Jamal interrupted. “We found a potentially incriminating text message on her phone from someone named Heather.”

Ms. LaCroix seemed taken aback by Jamal’s tone, but answered quickly. “That would be Heather Lonigan. She and Lauren were good friends. I’m not sure if they were “best” friends, but they’ve been friends since grade school.”

“We’ll need to talk to her right away,” Jamal said, fixing the Principal with an intense look.

Ms. LaCroix stepped out of her office and asked the school secretary to fetch Heather Lonigan out of class. She arrived a few minutes later, a pretty girl with long blonde hair, her eyes red and puffy from crying. She took a seat, clearly nervous but willing to help. “Hello Heather…” Joe began, but Jamal interrupted.

“We found Lauren’s cellphone, and know you were texting with her last night shortly before she died. We need you to tell us what that message was about.”

Heather gulped, but answered quickly. “Lauren was all upset. This boy in our class, Tom Dengler, just out of the blue asked her to go to Homecoming with him. I mean, Tom’s a nice guy I guess, but he’s kind of a dork, you know? Lauren thought he was making some kind of dorky joke or something, and she laughed, and it really hurt his feelings. She tried to be nice about it, but he got mad and stomped off. She was worried because they’re chemistry lab partners, and she was going to have to see him today …” Heather began sobbing.

Joe tried to comfort the girl as best he could, but Jamal went to the outer office, where the Principal had stepped out to let them speak to Heather in private. “We need to speak to Thomas Dengler immediately. He’s mixed up in this somehow, and we need to get to the bottom of it.”

Ms. LaCroix looked shocked, but sent the secretary to find Thomas and bring him to the office. As Heather left, Jamal took her by the arm and led her back into her office. “Before he gets here, tell me everything you can about Thomas Dengler,” he demanded.

Ms. LaCroix shook her head. “Do you really think one of our students killed Lauren Harrowgate?” she whispered.

Joe opened his mouth to reassure her and redirect the conversation, but Jamal was too quick for him. “We’re not sure yet, but Thomas Dengler’s name keeps coming up, and I don’t believe in coincidence. What can you tell us about him?”

“Well, Thomas is a good student. A very good student – also in several AP classes. He’s not terribly popular, but I wouldn’t call him unpopular, either. He’s kind of an ‘old soul’, if you know what I mean; I think he’s more comfortable around adults than kids his own age. But he has friends, if not as many as Lauren, and he’s never been in trouble, never shown any signs of violence or depression.”

At that point, the secretary poked her head into the office. “I’m afraid Thomas Dengler isn’t in class today – he called in sick.”

“You see!” Jamal exclaimed. “That tears it. We need to know – did Tom Dengler ever have any run-ins with Vanessa Halvan, the second victim?”

“I … I don’t think so,” Ms. LaCroix stammered. “Not that I ever heard of. I mean, students would sometimes get detention from Ms. Halvan for acting out in study hall, but never anything serious.”

“How about the Dengler kid? Did he get detention from her?”

“Well, I don’t really know. Alice?” LaCroix turned back to the secretary, who’d been listening with wide eyes. “Can you go through the file of detention slips and see if Ms. Halvan ever wrote up Tom Dengler?” The secretary nodded, and went back into the outer office. “Surely you don’t think that Tom Dengler murdered Lauren? And the others, too? I just can’t believe he’s capable of that.”

“Maybe not alone,” Jamal said. He was pacing the office now. “The forensics don’t support that.” Joe was staring at Jamal open-mouthed; why on earth was he speculating on this shit in front of a civilian? But Jamal was oblivious. “Maybe he had help. Or maybe he wasn’t involved, but someone close to him was. All we know is that whenever Dengler got mad at someone, they ended up dead. First the dentist, now the girl.”

There was a quiet knock on the door, and the secretary poked her head back in. “I haven’t been through all the detention slips yet, but I started with the last day that Vanessa was here at school, and I found this.” With a shaking hand she handed a pink form to the Principal, who read it then passed it on to Jamal. I was a form sentencing Thomas Dengler to detention for disturbing study hall. It was signed ‘Vanessa Halvan’ and was dated October 6 – the day she was murdered.

“This proves it!” Jamal practically shouted, waving the slip overhead. “All three victims pissed of Tom Dengler and were dead within 24 hours!” He turned back to Ms. LaCroix. “We’re going to investigate Thomas Dengler, but you need to keep your mouth shut about this, understand? If you so much as whisper a peep of this, you’ll feel the full fury of the FBI.” He leaned forward, fists on her desk, and put his face directly in hers. “And of me personally. Understand?” She nodded meekly, tears forming in her eyes. “And that goes for you, too!” he barked at the secretary. With that, he swept out of the office. Joe stood there for a moment, trying to think of some way to smooth this all over. But the damage was already done. “Sorry,” he mumbled, then followed Jamal out.

By the time they got back to the Harrowgate house, Thomas and Garrett were packing up Thomas’s drone. “State Police CSI guys are going over the back yard, so we couldn’t do another ground search,” Thomas explained. “I flew over the house, yard, neighbors’ yards, and shoreline, but didn’t see anything unusual. How’d it go at the school?”

“Great!” Jamal said. “Terrible,” Joe moaned at the same time. The other two raised their eyebrows and waited for an explanation.

“Mr. FBI here just painted a great big target on Thomas Dengler in front of the Principal and her secretary. All but accused him of being the murderer and then threatened her if she didn’t keep quiet about it. My money says that by the end of the day, everyone in that school will know that we’re looking at the Dengler kid.”

“I did not!” Jamal objected. “I just shared our working theory. I even said it might have been somebody else. And I told her not to tell anyone precisely so the rest of the school wouldn’t find out.” Joe’s expression told him just how effective he thought that would be.

Garrett’s brow was furrowed. “Forgetting all that, we now have a link between the Dengler kid and all three victims. We’ve seen the bodies – there’s no way that skinny kid could have done all that damage. But maybe he turns into something at night, like a werewolf or something. Or maybe he summons some creature to do his bidding. Whatever, we need to talk to him again. We need to pay the Dengler’s another visit.”

The Dengler house was only a few blocks away, and they did a quiet drive-by. The driveway was empty, curtains drawn, but they couldn’t tell if there was a car in the garage or not. Joe pulled the car around the corner and popped the trunk. Within minutes he was clad in an orange safety vest and hardhat, with a clipboard in one hand. A generic “Power and Light” ID badge was clipped to the vest, the company name conveniently obscured by a smear of paint.

He walked back around the corner, whistling. As he climbed the Dengler’s driveway, he peeked in the garage window – empty. He rang the bell several times to no answer. As he waited, he verified the front door was locked. He walked around to the back, knocked, and tried the back door. Also locked. He returned to team waiting in the car. “Nobody’s home.”

Jamal slapped the dash. “Of course they’re not,” he said in an exasperated tone. “I forgot – today’s the day they said Thomas was going to the other dentist to get his root canal re-done.”

Confident they’d find the house deserted, Joe, Garrett, and Thomas walked back to the Dengler’s, leaving Jamal on watch to warn them if anyone came home unexpectedly. They went straight to the back door and Garrett's picks made short work of the lock. They filed into the empty house, closing the door behind them.

The house was a split level, and they remembered Thomas coming down the stairs from his bedroom the first time they’d visited, so they climbed to the second level. They had no trouble identifying which bedroom belonged to a teenaged boy: unmade bed, clothes on the floor, empty soda cans and candy wrappers on most surfaces. There was a laptop next to a Playstation and a large TV, and Thomas went straight for the laptop. It looked like a typical teenager’s room – except for the archeology textbooks scattered around the room. ‘Archeology Essentials’ was open and face-down on the bed, as if Thomas marked his place when he got up, and half a dozen other texts on the subject lay on various surfaces around the room. Joe picked up the face-down book on the bed; the chapter Thomas had been reading was about the ancient Incans.

“Nothing interesting on the laptop,” Thomas said, still tapping at the keyboard. “School assignments, almost no email, some games. Lots of porn sites in his browser history, but nothing kinky or violent – mostly cheerleader porn.” Thomas seemed to be able to classify the porn sites rather quickly.

“Hey – check this out!” Garrett was going through Thomas’s closet, and dragged out an old-looking wood and metal footlocker. It was covered with address and travel stickers, most of which were so rubbed off as to be illegible. Many that were readable were in Spanish, and ‘Lima, Peru’ could be made out on some of them. Inside was a collection of handwritten and typed notes, sorted into dozens of manila folders, obviously very old. Interspersed among them were lengths of colored, knotted rope (also clearly extremely old and fragile), clay and wood statuettes, drawings of buildings and rubbings of Incan/Mayan-looking hieroglyphics. There was an old-looking bound notebook, full of notes in both English and Spanish, along with many more drawings of ruins and hieroglyphs. The inscription in the front identified it as Derek Wheeler’s notebook. There was also a flat rectangular box covered with black satin and bearing the inscription ‘Cartier’ on the front. The inside was lined with dark green velvet – it likely once contained a necklace, but was currently empty.

“Geez, there must be a million Derek Wheelers,” Thomas said; he was already doing a Google search on the name. “Let me qualify it with words like ‘Archeologist’.” He tapped some more. “This must be him,” he said, looking at one of the hits. “There’s hardly anything about him online, but it looks like he was from Indiana – went to Indiana University but never graduated. Was an archeologist in South America back in the 30s. Did a lot of research on Incan temples. But there’s really nothing else on him after that, until an obituary from 1975.”

Garrett was looking at the Cartier box. “I’m betting this wasn’t empty when the kid got it. Looks like it could have held a necklace, or an amulet or something. If the kid’s got it, maybe that what lets him transform or whatever. Gives him super powers or something.” After a couple of days of seriously considering the existence of a pterodactyl in Long Island, this didn’t seem like too much of a stretch.

“We need to put a tail on Dengler when he gets home, see where he goes,” Joe said. “But that’s going to be tricky in this neighborhood. We’ll stick out like a sore thumb if we just park across from the house watching.”

“No need,” Thomas said cheerily. “I’ve got a GPS tracker – we can just put it in his backpack.” Thomas’s backpack was lying on the bed. “Only problem is, the tracker’s still in the car.”

“No sweat – I’ll get it.” Joe headed downstairs and out the back door. As he reached the driveway, he found the next-door neighbor unloading groceries from her trunk. “Can I help you?” she asked warily.

Joe gave her his most winning smile; he was still wearing his hard hat and safety vest. “Jack Dickerson, PSEG,” he said, remembering the local power company’s name from the truck at last night’s crime scene. “We got a report of a power surge from your neighbor’s house, and they sent me out to check it out. Everything’s fine – just a faulty sensor. Just heading back to my truck to get a replacement.” She seemed to accept his explanation at face value. He returned to the car, found the tracker in Thomas’s bag, and headed back to the Dengler’s, making sure the neighbor was safely inside before heading to the back and letting himself in. Thomas turned the tracker on, buried it in the bottom of the backpack, and the team left, making sure everything was as they’d found it.

By this time it was noon. “If we’re going to attend the autopsy, we’d better get on our way,” Jamal warned. They stopped at a diner on the way out of town for a quick lunch, then drove to the ME’s office in Hauppage.

Dr. Scarpetti came to meet them in the lobby. Today he wore a white lab coat over plaid shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. Despite his attire, he seemed somewhat subdued. When they entered the autopsy suite, they found two other men waiting there. Both wore gray suits; one was white with short-cropped hair and a heavily tanned face, while the other was a Black man. They were compact and appeared to be in excellent shape beneath their suits. “These gentlemen are from the EPA,” Scarpetti said by way of introduction.

“Art Baker,” one said, stepping forward to shake hands, “and this is my partner, Chuck Dexter”. Both men handed over EPA business cards with a Camden NJ address. “We were notified by Archon Labs that there was a possibility of environmental contamination in some of the samples analyzed from the previous victims, so when we heard another possible victim had been found we came up to obtain samples of our own to examine.” Garrett eyed them suspiciously; he’d run into a few special operators in his time in the Army, and these two had that look about them.

Dr. Scarpetti wheeled Lauren Harrowgate’s body out if its refrigerated container and began the autopsy. Both EPA men seemed unfazed by the level of gore involved. As Scarpetti worked, Thomas did his best to keep his gaze focused anywhere other than the body – he didn’t share the others’ strong stomachs. He noticed an open briefcase on a stainless steel table behind the EPA men. There was a small rack of empty sample bottles in it, presumably for the samples they planned to take. Beneath it was a manila folder. He could see the top of a document peeking out of the folder. He recognized the Archon Labs logo from the report Scarpetti had given them, but this document also bore a red ‘TOP SECRET’ stamp next to the logo. He cast a quick glance at the two EPA men; their backs were turned, and they seemed to be intensely focused on the autopsy, but they were only a few feet away. Thomas weighed the odds, and concluded that his chances of slipping the document out unnoticed were slim to none. Reluctantly, he turned away.

Dr. Scarpetti was currently working on Lauren’s hands, taking special care in taking scrapings from beneath her fingernails, depositing the contents into separate glass vials for each finger. “I took samples last night, while the body was still on the tower, so we know those haven’t been touched by anyone else,” he explained. When he finished, he gave the EPA men samples from both last night and today; Baker put them in the sample case in his briefcase, and clicked it shut.

As Scarpetti began to crack the girl’s ribcage, Thomas’s phone buzzed. Relieved for any distraction, he stepped aside and opened a cryptic text message:

He quietly pulled Joe aside and showed him the message. “Think it’s from Carson?” he whispered, and Joe nodded. “I’m guessing ‘NJTP’ is New Jersey Turnpike. What’s the ‘BK’?”

“Burger King,” Joe whispered in reply. “Lots of them along the Turnpike. Think ‘4/5’ is a mile marker?” Thomas already had Google Maps up on his phone, and in a minute he nodded, and showed Joe a map; there was a service plaza on the New Jersey Turnpike between mile markers 4 and 5. And the main restaurant was a Burger King.

“It’s already after 3,” Joe whispered, keeping his back to the ‘EPA’ men. “With traffic this time of day, it’ll take us 3-4 hours to get there from here. If we’re going, we need to leave now.”

They quietly summoned the others and showed them the message. Jamal debated staying for the rest of the autopsy (and to see what the EPA men did when it ended), but decided that with no car, he’d be useless here. So they all made their apologies. “Sorry – we’ve been called off on another case. We’ll have to let you finish without us.” Scarpetti nodded absently, and the other two men barely looked up. When they got to the parking lot, Thomas piped up. “I’ve got another tracker in my bag. We could put it on their car, see where they go.” Then he looked around the parking lot and realized that he had no idea which of the dozen or so cars belonged to the two men from the EPA. Disappointed, he climbed into the car and they drove south. Joe and Garrett scanned the road behind them for the next half hour, watching for any sign of a tail, but saw none.

“Does this feel hinky to you?” Jamal asked as they drove. “If those guys were from the EPA, then I live on Sesame Street.” Thomas told them about the Top Secret Archon report he’d glimpsed in their briefcase. “See! There you go,” Jamal continued. “The FBI labs couldn’t identify anything from those samples, but Archon told Scarpetti it was just clay that had been contaminated with cleaning fluid. But then they tell the EPA – or whoever those guys were – that there’s ‘environmental contamination’, and they apparently have a different version of Archon’s report, one that’s classified. And why is Carson being so weird? Do you think it’s time to call our regular handlers? Maybe they can tell us more.”

Thomas shook his head. “I say we wait. Let’s let this play out, see what we can learn, then contact them when we know more.” No one was anxious to kick things up the chain unnecessarily, so they left it at that.

They arrived at the service plaza right around 7:00. As expected, a Burger King was the dominant eating establishment. SAIC Carson was already seated at a booth by the window, and he waved the agents over as soon as they entered. He seemed especially nervous; he was sweating heavily, his knee jiggling constantly, and his eyes were scanning the restaurant and parking lot outside during the entire conversation.

“They know!” he said breathlessly as they sat down across from him. “I don’t know how – I thought I’d buried our report. But they know, and they’ll be coming!”

“Slow down,” Joe said. “Who knows?”

“The Program! They say they cleaned house, but they just shuffled the players. They’re in league with those damned MAJESTIC-12 assholes who moved over to March Technologies. They want to collect or capture whatever is killing these people, harness it, weaponized it, make money off it. We can’t let that happen! That always comes back to bite you in the ass big time! You have to burn it out as soon as you have the chance!”

Jamal was starting to mimic Carson’s near-panicked glances around the restaurant. Garrett remained calm. “I’m confused,” he said quietly. “Who’s ‘the Program’?”

“They call themselves Delta Green, but they’re not, not really.” Carson sputtered. “They put on the name like a mask, to hide what they’re really doing. They call us Outlaws, but they’re the ones who are a threat!”

“There were two men at the autopsy who claimed to be from the EPA,” Thomas shared. “But they looked more like special forces. Do you think they were from the Program?”

Carson’s face went white. “Yes! They have to be! They saw you? They know your names? Oh this is bad. This is really, really bad.” He muttered to himself for a few seconds, then looked back up at the team. “You can’t try to fight them – they’re too strong, too many of them. You need to keep quiet, pretend to play along. But you HAVE to stop them. Don’t let whatever this is fall into their hands. Just find a way to stop this thing before they get their hands on it.”

He stood up quickly, scattering fries across the floor in his hurry to leave. “This conversation never happened. Don’t ever mention my name and don’t ever contact me again.” He rushed out the door and disappeared into the night.

The group stared at each other in silence for a full minute before Jamal spoke. “Well, it sounds like we’re off the case. Our FBI sponsor just washed his hands of us, said he never wants to talk to us again. You guys ready to go home?”

The other three stared at him. “Are you crazy?” Garrett said at last. “We’re not working for the FB-fucking-I. We’re Delta Green. We do what needs to be done despite being told to stay the fuck away. This isn’t about authorization, or permission. This is about saving the fucking world.” The others nodded – they’d long ago accepted that Delta Green’s mission overrode anything else in their lives – or their lives themselves. Jamal glared at them for a moment, then his shoulders slumped. For a moment, he’d let himself believe it could all be over that easily. Now he knew better.

The drive back to Long Island passed mostly in silence. They parked outside the Peconic Inn and filed inside; it was nearly 11 PM and the place was almost deserted. But not entirely. A lone woman stood in the lobby. She was fortyish, with stylish short hair, wearing jeans and a ski jacket. The agents did a double-take as they recognized her: it was Agent Esther, one of their Handlers. She gave them a glare, then with a sharp nod of her head led them into the hotel bar. She slid into a booth and waited for the others to join her. She sat in silence for a moment, then gave them a hard look. “You want to tell me what the holy hell you’re doing here?”

“Um, we’re on a Delta Green Op,” Joe began, but Agent Esther cut him off with a withering look.

“Really? A Delta Green op? You want to tell me exactly who sent you on this op? Because it wasn’t anyone in E-cell. And it wasn’t anyone above E-cell, either, because they’re the ones who pulled me up here to find out why you’re off the reservation. Whoever sent you may say they’re Delta Green, but they’re not.”

“It was Special Agent Thomas Carson, from the FBI,” Jamal said quickly. Joe gave him a side glance; he wondered if Jamal would give him up that easily.

Esther nodded. “Tom Carson – that old bastard. We should have known he wouldn’t just leave well enough alone. I’ll pass this along and let the higher-ups decide what to do about him. Has he been in contact with you since the operation started?”

“Yes, we just met with him a few hours ago in New Jersey,” Jamal continued. Carson’s warning not to mention his name to anyone had apparently fallen on deaf ears. “He seemed really frightened.”

Agent Esther snorted. “He should be frightened – he’s in way over his head. What have you learned about the case? What did you tell him? How much does he know?”

The agents thought back on their recent conversation, and realized they really hadn’t discussed the case itself with Carson at all. “Nothing,” Thomas offered. “We didn’t tell him anything about the case.”

Agent Esther seemed to relax just a fraction. “Good. Good. Listen, this thing has been a cluster fuck from the get-go, but it’s not entirely your fault. You were misled, lied to. But you’re already on the ground, and you know more about this case than anyone else – we might as well make use of you. Tell me what you’ve got.”

“Don’t you want to have the other team take over?” Jamal still hadn’t given up on the idea of going home and leaving this all behind. “You know, those guys from the EPA?”

Agent Esther almost laughed. “Those guys? They’re not Delta Green. They’re … back-up. Muscle. But not agents. We need a team of agents to lead this. We need you.”

The others quickly filled Esther in on everything they’d learned: the victims, the nature of the murders, the linkage of Thomas Dengler to each of the victims and the footlocker of archaeological artifacts they’d found in his closet. She didn’t laugh at their pterodactyl theories, or the notion that the Dengler boy could be some sort of shapeshifter. She was unsurprised when Thomas told her of the Top Secret Archon Labs report he’d glimpsed in the ‘EPA’ briefcase. “Don’t worry about Archon Labs – they’re with us. They’re the ones who raised the red flag on this in the first place.”

Joe suddenly had a flash of memory, of the Archon Labs logo at the top of the chemical anlaysis report. ‘Archon Labs – a Division of March Technologies’, it had said. He remembered Carson’s panicked ravings a few hours ago, how he’d said ‘The Program’ was in league with something called MAJESTIC-12, who were somehow part of March Technologies. He looked at Agent Esther; who was she, really? There were more moving pieces here than he could keep track of, more secrets, more lies, a hidden history he knew nothing about. For now he kept his thoughts to himself; this was a matter for later.

“You guys have done good work here,” Agent Esther was saying. “You’re a good team, despite this one fuck-up. You need to keep on the kid. Find out what he knows, or what he has. If you find out he has something unnatural, then either get it from him, or call me and we’ll take care of it.” She stood to leave. “Just one more thing. Don’t ever take an Op from anyone who’s not in E-cell, and if anyone else ever contacts you again, call one of us immediately. The higher ups might forgive this one mistake, but they won’t forgive a second.” With that, she strode out of the hotel. Joe hurried to the window to watch her leave. She walked half a block down the street, then climbed into the back seat of a waiting gray Ford Taurus and drove away.

The team had had almost no sleep in the last two days, and collapsed for the night. Over breakfast the next morning, Thomas reported on the tracker. “The kid’s backpack stayed in the house all day and night. It’s just now moved to the high school. Looks like a normal day so far.”

They drove to the high school, planning to wait outside to be ready to intercept Dengler should he leave. On the way, Joe nodded up at the rearview mirror. “Don’t look now, but we’ve picked up a tail.” Of course, everyone craned their necks for a view. A block or so back, a gray Ford Taurus followed their every turn. It hung far enough back to make it impossible to get a clear look at who was inside, but didn’t seem to be making an effort not to be spotted. “I’m betting it’s our friends from the EPA,” Joe said.

They arrived at the high school and parked across from the front entrance. “Maybe we can get into his school locker,” Joe suggested. “Or maybe if he has to change clothes for gym class we could see if he takes off the necklace or whatever. I’ll call the school and see if the Principal will give us his locker number and class schedule. He called the school and asked for Ms. LaCroix, but when she answered, she cut off his questions.

“On advice of counsel, all questions from the FBI are to be directed to the school district’s attorneys,” she said, then hung up.

“Well that doesn’t sound good,” Garrett said. “What do you think that’s all about?”

“Oh I don’t know,” Joe said with exasperation. “Maybe because somebody decided to accuse one of their students of murder and then threatened the school principal?”

“I was just warning her not to tell anyone else!” Jamal complained, but he was cut off by a rap on the car window. A uniformed security guard stood outside the car. "I'm sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to move your vehicle at least 500 feet away from school property or else I’ll be forced to call the police.”

Not wanting to create a scene, they drove away, and parked at Peconic Park. Their tail followed, parking a block away, clearly visible. Thomas continued to monitor his tracker on his laptop. About 10:00, he suddenly perked up. “He’s on the move!”

“Maybe he’s going off campus for lunch, or walking home,” Garrett said. “We can grab him as soon as he’s out of sight of school.”

“He’s not walking,” Thomas said, watching the moving dot on his screen. “He’s going way too fast. Heading home. I’m guessing Mom picked him up from school.”

“At 10:00 in the morning?” Jamal said. “Why so early?” The tracker showed Thomas’s backpack returning to the Dengler house and then remaining stationary.

Twenty minutes later, Jamal’s phone rang. It was Detective Gregson, and she was not happy. “What the hell are you people doing?” she shouted into the phone. "First I get a call from the Superintendent of Schools, saying that you’re publicly accusing one of their students of murder and that you physically threatened the High School Principal!”

“I did not …” Jamal began, but Gregson kept shouting over him.

“And now I get a call from an Eloise Dengler saying that you’ve told everyone at school that her son was responsible for Lauren Harrogate’s murder. She’s threatening lawsuits against the city, the police department, the FBI, and anyone else her lawyers can think of! I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but this is not how we conduct an investigation. I’m pulling you off the case, and revoking any permission for you to view evidence or speak to witnesses. I can’t tell you to get the hell out of town, but I strongly suggest you do just that. Oh shit! This is the mayor on the other line. Get out of my town!” The line went dead.

Jamal had had Gregson on speaker, so the whole car had heard her tirade. As soon as Gregson hung up, Jamal was keying in another number. They heard the phone ring, then Agent Esther’s voice. “Go,” she commanded.

“Agent Patrick here,” Jamal said, using his Delta Green code name. “The local police just yanked us off the case and kicked us out of town. Looks like we’ll have to pull out after all, and you can put in a different team.”

The line was silent for a moment, then Agent Esther’s voice returned, taut with anger. “How many teams do you think we have just sitting around the northeast waiting for an Op? You’re it. If you’re not up for it, then you can go home now. And we’ll never, ever call you again. Ever.”

“I love you too,” Jamal snapped, and disconnected. He looked around at the rest of his team, but he knew they weren’t going anywhere. And inside, his guts had turned to water. He knew the saying in Delta Green: If you jeopardize the operation, you may become the operation.

The car was silent for some time. “You know what this means, don’t you?” Garrett said at last. “Thomas Dengler is now pissed off at us. At you in particular.” Jamal nodded. “As soon as it gets dark, we’re going to be his next targets.”