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The two of them sat in his car halfway down the block on the opposite side of the street from the bar. It said "Tavern" on the sign, but Traxler didn't know what the distinction was, nor did he care. Beside him, the old man sat in silence, his gaze fixed on the entrance. It was late morning and the place looked like it was closed.
"So you're telling me..." the priest began slowly, "...that one of those... creatures... works here?"
Traxler nodded. "That's what our intelligence tells us. She recently got a job as a bartender."
"Your intelligence?" Father Brown smiled, turning to look at Traxler. "It beggars belief that the collection of such information is in fact legal."
To that, Traxler shrugged. "As I've already explained to you – a couple of times now, I believe – our charter is extraordinarily broad. Every time someone has questioned the legality of our actions, they've lost." In truth, he didn't understand how that could possibly be the case himself, but he wasn't lying. The Agency was a legal, legitimate outfit with authorizations stemming from the highest offices in the land.
"Hmm." The priest turned back to look at the bar again. It was obvious he didn't believe it, but Traxler didn't care. From what he'd seen in the file, he didn't expect this man to be overly bothered by legalities. "And just what is it you expect me to do with this information?"
Now it was Traxler's turn to smile, though the other man's head was turned. "Officially, I expect you to exercise your First Amendment rights and protest this establishment's reckless choice to hire a dangerous lycanthrope."
The other man snorted. "And unofficially?"
Traxler considered for a moment, then shrugged. "Maybe there isn't anything else. Then again, if you were to assume there is – and then act on that assumption – well, there isn't much I can do about that, is there?" He knew from previous operations that it was better not to explicitly suggest violence. This was less about the legal ramifications and plausible deniability, and more that they could truthfully admit to the werewolves that they made no direct calls to action.
At that, the priest turned once again. This time the movement was slower, more measured. He shifted his entire body to face Traxler, and with the short distance between them, Traxler could see the fanaticism in Father Brown's eyes. It was a look not too dissimilar from what he got from The Manager but lacking his superior's ironclad rationality and control. When he first realized what The Manager had in mind, he didn't think the old priest would be capable of anything even remotely threatening to these werewolves.
Now, looking at the burning fire in the other man's eyes, having it directed at him, he finally started to understand.
The priest's gaze simmered for the span of several heartbeats. Then: "I'm not certain that I care for your impudent tone, my son."
Traxler resented being called "my son," despite the age difference. He used that to fuel the strength in his own retort. "I'm quite certain I don't care whether you like it or not. The fact is, we're on the same side here."
Father Brown's laugh was cold. "You speak in such pretty words, but I know the truth of what you are saying. You expect my Cruciform Knights to do your dirty work, so that your hands may remain clean. That is what you are asking, is it not?"
Traxler's hands were hardly "clean," but he had no interest in getting into any of that with the man. "I thought it was the Lord's dirty work?" He was careful to neither confirm nor deny Brown's accusation.
"Don't patronize me. I know you are an unbeliever, doing this for something as base as a government paycheck."
He felt the urge to punch the man in his oh-so-pious face but restrained himself. "What I believe or don't believe doesn't matter. You're not the only one who thinks their cause is just!" Traxler didn't have to feign the indignant tone.
The other man studied him for an uncomfortably long time, perhaps trying to ascertain whether his outburst was sincere or not. Traxler withstood the scrutiny unflinchingly, something he probably wouldn't have been able to do before he'd worked with Mitchum and The Manager. Those men had a way of hardening your willpower the way fire and oil harden steel.
Apparently satisfied with what he saw, Father Brown nodded once. "I see the truth in you. I apologize for my unkind words. They were... unbecoming a man of the cloth."
"I'm sorry too." The words felt wooden in his mouth, but he said them anyway. They might even have been true, to an extent. It would not do to antagonize this man, not when The Agency was going to need his help with their current problem. He nodded toward the bar's entrance. "Looks like the morning crew is arriving. And I think that's her." He quickly bent to the file folder in his lap, flipping through the photographs until he found the one he was looking for. "See?" He held it out for Father Brown to study. The woman in the picture was petite, with wavy brown hair that fell past her shoulders, a small, dainty chin, and full lips. One of the two employees currently occupied in unlocking the bar's front door was the spitting image of the woman in the photo. She didn't even bother to change her hair. "Yep. That's definitely her. Naomi Cooke. Lived in Seattle and San Diego before coming here."
"And you are quite certain she is one of those monsters?"
"Oh yes, very much. We have recordings of them during the last full moon." The video forensics team spent days poring over every frame of the video, trying to positively tie each lupine form to its human counterpart. They weren't entirely successful, as the actual transformation had occurred too deep in the forest where their cameras couldn't penetrate. But they had pretty clear footage of the nine of them traipsing from the complex into the woods, and a short time later flashes of werewolves on the hunt. He was certain.
"It's a shame. She is so pretty." Father Brown seemed almost sorrowful.
"So I take it you'll help us?"
The old man bent over, making a show of untying and retying one of his shoes. He was obviously buying time while he considered his decision. Traxler let the man think, glancing toward the bar again. He didn't even look back when the old man finally broke his silence. "No, Agent Traxler. It's not you I'm interested in helping. As you said, we're on the same side, but whatever happens, it shall be at the direction of God's will, not the vagaries of man."
Traxler knew better than to try and argue with a fanatic like Father Brown. The important thing was that he'd been successful in his mission. Now he just hoped Mitchum had been successful as well.
"Well, whether it's for God or country, the U.S. government thanks you." He started the sedan and pulled away. The longer they stayed there, the greater the chances they would be noticed. He'd done what he set out to do. The rest was in Father Brown's hands.