Whistler’s Grandfather, Pt II

This is the 2nd part of a fantasy thriller tale involving magic and the FBI. For Part I see the below link.

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When the knock came on his office door FBI Special Agent Peter Griffith looked up from the files he was perusing at his desk. With a sigh, he set down the brief on the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act he had been perusing, and rubbed his tired eyes. “Come in,” he called.

A trim agent in a dark blue suit-coat and slacks, his tie slightly askew, entered the room. Agent Griffith was surprised to see his protege as Agent Hereford Clifton was supposed to be in Baltimore heading up an investigation on organized crime. The normally unflappable agent had a worried look about him, evidenced by a tension around his brown eyes and a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. Pausing for a moment, the thirty-six year old FBI agent poked his head back out the door, checking the hallway in both directions before closing the hard wood door and crossing to his supervisor’s desk.

“Good morning Agent Clifton. Why aren’t you in Baltimore? Did something happen?”

“Yes sir. But not with the case. Agent Spencer is handling that at the moment. Everything’s going well on that front.”

“Glad to hear it. So, to what do I owe this visit? Surely you could have called me to tell me that everything’s fine.” Agent Griffith took in the way his second in command was standing, his hands unconsciously fidgeting with the creases of his pants. It also seemed the dapper agent’s shoes, normally shined to a mirror sheen, were slightly dulled. Griffith couldn’t remember ever seeing the prim man with his tie anything but perfect. Something out of the ordinary was happening.

Agent Clifton reached into his jacket pocket and removed an electronic device. “Just thought I’d fill you in on the particulars of our progress, Sir,” he said as he keyed the device on. “I had to meet the wife at Jimmy’s school this morning for a conference, so I was in the area.” As he spoke, keeping his tone to a light banter, the agent checked the device for any indication of electronic surveillance in the office.

As he watched, worry building in his mind, Agent Griffith replied in the same easy tone. “How are Jenny and Jimmy doing? Everything good at school? Jimmy didn’t use his karate lessons on any bullies again did he?”

“No sir. Just a teacher and parent meeting on progress. Jenny sends her regards. She wants to get together for a barbecue soon. Told me to have you ask Carla to call.” As the surveillance scanner beeped indicating all clear, Hereforth relaxed slightly. Replacing the scanner in his pocket he looked at his boss. “All clear,”he said.

Special Agent Peter Griffith leaned back, letting out a pent breath. “What’s going on Hereforth?” he queried.

“It’s about the artist, sir.”

Griffith was confused. “Artist? What artist? Is that a nickname for some counterfeiter or something?”

“No sir. The. Artist.”

Griffith’s eyes widened in sudden understanding. “The Artist? Savoi?”

“Yes sir. Agent Scrivener called me this morning. There is indication that … magic… of his sort was activated yesterday somewhere in Northern West Virginia.”

Griffith swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. “Is he back? Do we know?” Other than his initial briefing when he took over the Department of Extranormal Affairs … DENA … Griffith hadn’t ever again heard anything about Jedediah Savoi. The man known as The Artist had been silent for about seven decades. Presumed dead. Christ. Was it even possible? He’d be almost a hundred and fifty years old… A descendant perhaps?

“Not certain sir. Agent Scrivener wasn’t very forthcoming on the phone. He wants to set up a meeting of the department.”

“Does Director Webster know?”

“No sir. So far as I know, only Agent Scivener, myself, and now you, Sir.”

“Okay. Let’s keep it that way for now. Some things the director isn’t ready for.”

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In the isolated two story home set in the mountainous outskirts of Thomas, West Virginia, Jedediah Savoi kicked off the blankets on the full size bed in his grandson’s old house and sat up. Stretching his old joints, he looked out the window. Snow was falling in heavy sheets, covering the mountains in a pristine white shroud. He could smell the coffee already percolating. Knew I liked that boy, he thought as he pulled on the robe he had laid on a chair before going to bed the night before.