Chapter Three
Agency Director William Davis Camp pored over the stack of papers on his desk. He insisted on paper – paper was tangible, paper had gravitas and most importantly, paper could be destroyed.
Especially the paper from his office. It was all typewritten on actual typewriters by actual people. Every agent was issued a lovingly refurbished Woodstock typewriter expressly for the purpose of submitting any and all paperwork. Photocopiers didn’t exist in the Agency; Low-tech records were secure.
Video records were an entirely different kettle of fish, but Camp had managed to keep them stored on a closed system. Being a clandestine entity had it’s problems that sometimes seemed to outweigh the freedom it allowed.
He sighed and returned to the file on FBI Agent Johnathan Parker. Camp had been following the career of John Parker for quite some time. It wasn’t exactly the most traditional of stories.
Haitian born, mother was into Voodoo, father worked three jobs to be able to move the family to a Miami ghetto…
The intercom buzzed.
“Agent Johnathan Parker,” chirped Mary, Davis’ assistant, “Shall I send him in?”
“Yes, Mary. Oh, Mary – why don’t you go on home? I think this might take awhile,” Camp grunted into the intercom.
Mary was a good egg, but blissfully ignorant of what was really going on and that’s the way Camp liked it. Every piece of intel that passed through his office was ‘need to know’ and Mary, with her minivan and 3 kids didn’t need to know.
The doorknob turned and in walked FBI Agent Johnathan Parker.
Parker assessed his situation – it was instinctive now – something he’d been doing for twenty-plus years in the FBI and five before that in the Miami PD. Director William Davis Camp’s office looked like it was plucked from the 1950’s and transported into the middle of modern Washington DC. Wooden door, wooden paneling, oak shelves, leather wing-back chairs – even a deep-pile carpet. And Davis was smoking – smoking – a near-comically outsized cigar. He looked like a caricature of a grizzled 1950’s 5-star general, but with mischievous eyes that betrayed his craggy features. His thick build made him look strong, not fat – he looked like he could hold his own even though he was on the wrong side of 65.
Camp cleared his throat and rose from his chair, “Agent Parker. Have a seat – want a cigar? Whiskey?”, he asked as he crossed the room in a flash and wrapped his enormous right hand around Parker’s, pumping his arm and slapping him on the shoulder with his other meathook.
“Sit down, son – we ain’t gettin’ any younger, the two of us. And besides, I’ve been waitin’ to meet you for a helluva long time.” His South Texas accent was overwhelming in the same way everything about Camp was. One thing was certain, William Davis Camp knew how to take up space.
Parker followed Camp to his desk and waved off the alcohol as the Director poured himself a glass, “Hell, I know it’s early, but a man with my kinda problems needs a bracer now and again.”
As Camp sat back down, he assessed Parker. “Could this man survive what I am about to send him into?” he thought, “I shoulda called him ten years ago. Ten years gone. Shit, I’m old.”
He frowned and took a belt from his whiskey and eyeballed Parker.
John Parker was a stately black man in his mid-forties, about six-foot-two, immaculately dressed in your standard FBI agent’s black suit and tie. The graying temples of his close-cropped hair gave him a sense of wisdom, not age and an athletic build told the story of a man trying like hell to beat back the years that unrelentingly erode us all.
“I’m assuming I call you ’sir’ even though I’m not sure what division you’re a part of,” said Parker breaking the silence, “and while I know I’m a fine looking individual, your staring is making me uncomfortable.”
Camp smiled, “I knew I’d like you, Parker! You got gumption, and I appreciate that. You can call me Director Camp, or sir or even Billy – when we’re off-duty. And I sure as shit outrank you. After 40 years on the job, I better outrank someone around here.”
He held up his hand as Parker was about to speak, “Hold on there, I’m getting to the point. You’re fired.” Camp punctuated this by shooting the rest of his drink, taking a deep drag on his cigar and slamming his glass on the desk.
John Parker was unsure what to say or do. Fired? He’d been with the FBI for 20 years and had solved more cases than anyone he knew! There had to be some kind of mistake, but this crazy old bastard seemed awfully sure of himself. Did he even have the power to fire him?
Camp laughed deep barrel laughs, occasionally coughing and sputtering while Parker tried to sort this out in his head.
“You got too nosy, Parker,” he finally wheezed, “found some documents that were supposed to be destroyed. I put agents in the Arctic Circle as punishment for that one.”
“You can’t be serious,” said Parker, “When I was told I was being reassigned, I didn’t know-”
“Can it, Parker!” barked Camp. “You’re only fired by the FBI. Sort of. You’re hired by me!”
Agent John Parker was reaching his limit, “And who the hell are you,” he exclaimed, “…sir?” he added as an afterthought.
“You’re looking at the director of a bona-fide secret agency, son,” Camp said proudly, “None of this FBI fake spook shit. And you… are our newest agent!”
“If this is some sort of joke, I can assure you that-”
“No joke, Parker. You’re one-hundred per-cent real-deal ghost now. I’ve been wanting to get you on board for a long time but you were doing so much good I decided to wait. As good as you are, when you took on the task of unsolved disappearances and murders I figured it was only a matter of time before you stumbled upon something leading you here. So when you did, I decided to bring you on before you started asking questions. I can only do so much damage control with the FBI. Our relationship is tenuous at best and they don’t like not knowing anything about us.”
“Who is ‘us?’”
“We go by the highly creative name ‘The Agency’, but on official documents and credentials, we’re DOJ-BOI. Department of Justice – Bureau of Investigations. Just like in the olden days. Since our cover is homeland security, we’ve got carte blanche over just about any situation we need. And the great thing is, besides a few blowhards in the Executive, no one knows what we really do.”
“And that is?”
“I’m getting to that. Indulge an old man… See, Parker, we’re the guys who do what must be done. If what we did got out to Joe Public, it would be a helluva shitstorm.”
“You’re beating around the bush, sir. What the hell is this operation?”
“Vampires. At least on your detail,” he said pouring himself another glass.
Parker rose as if to leave, “This is a god damned joke. I should have my head-”
“Sit down, Parker!” ordered Camp angrily. “Sorry, son. I don’t mean to get cross with you, but do you really think I’ve got time in my day to play practical jokes on FBI agents? The answer is no I don’t. I expected your disbelief and that’s why I’m going to show you what I’m going to show you.”
Camp pressed a button on his intercom and a flat-panel screen descended behind him.
“New fangled shit gives me a charge every time,” he grinned and then suddenly got serious, “You’re already working for me, so don’t mistake this for a ‘watch this and decide for yourself.’ The decision has been made.” He pulled a remote from his desk drawer, pressed a button and turned somberly towards the screen.
“You want me to kill vampires?” asked Parker incredulously.
“Not exactly. I need you to save someone’s life.”
