16 The Whistlemen
The Whistlemen
I’m five espresso shots deep into my day and running on tremendously high cortisol levels by the time we roll up to the most isolated Waffle House in Nevada.
A tumbleweed rolls through the nearly empty parking lot.
The slightest breeze pushes waves of hot air like a sweltering tide over us as we emerge from the Winnebago.
Nobody is going to come all this way just for the waffles.
A gangly and bored-looking boy stands behind the station inside the front doors. The place smells like a maple tree exploded, and the vivid yellow under the fluorescent lighting makes me want to break out my sunglasses.
“Welcome to Waffle House,” he says tonelessly, before glancing at his watch. “Actually, we’re closing in three minutes, so I can’t seat you.” He visibly perks up with the realization.
“You’re a twenty-four-seven establishment, aren’t you?” Calvin asks.
“Not this location.”
“It’s like, 3:27 in the afternoon?” Calvin says, checking his phone for the time.
“We’re booked for a private company event,” the boy replies, sighing deeply.
“I want some waffles. And I’d also like the house special number 247,” I say determinedly. Code for “I’m here on important Whistlemen business.” Any employee here should know enough to call in Gemma and Wolff for that. The waffles are because I’m hungry.
The boy squints at me and says, “We’ve taken that item off our menu. We’ve been running a new special lately.”
I drop the pretense. “No, seriously, call Wolff and Gemma. And food while we wait—I’ll pay for it and everything,” I say, pulling out cash.
I’m not fond of maple syrup, but judging by my stomach’s enthusiastic rumbling, I could use an actual meal.
When did I last eat? Breakfast? Those cheesy Doritos I remember buying from the rest area vending machine when we stopped to stretch our legs?
Calvin and I have been driving and sleeping in shifts, eating dubious gas station snacks and fast food.
We made it here from Montana in record time.
“Wolff and Gemma who?” the boy drawls, looking me up and down.
I’m wearing travel clothes, baggy basketball shorts, and a binder under a T-shirt printed with a Lisa Frank–style UFO and the words “Get in, Loser.” It seemed funny when I bought it, but it’s becoming too real to wear, I’m realizing, and not the best for serious meetings.
“Don’t play dumb. Tell them Reggie is here.”
The boy narrows his eyes and frowns. “The kitchen is already closed.”
I’m starting to dislike him intensely. “Look, kid”—I glance at his name tag—“Bear, is it?” Of course it is, a mini Wolff protégé, probably. I have to hold back my eye roll. “I know you’re not closed. Wolff and Gemma knew we were on the way. We’re just early. Call them in. This is serious.”
Bear rolls his eyes and sighs. “I can get you started with the 247 special, but it might take a while, since it’s off menu.”
“Great, lovely, thank you. Can I get the waffles while we wait, then?” I can feel a migraine coming on, from stress, from the bright colors, the one flickering light above us, the overpowering smell of maple syrup, all the above, probably.
Bear ignores me and types something into the tablet lying atop the host stand.
“Excuse me?” I say. “Aren’t you being paid for customer service?” I wouldn’t put it past Wolff to have unpaid interns, but Gemma’s fair, and I’m sure this kid is working for well above minimum wage.
“Not well enough to deal with customers like you,” Bear mutters under his breath.
Calvin suddenly lunges. His features slide slowly toward transformation as I watch, more controlled and deliberate than I’ve seen from him yet. The effect is meant to intimidate, but something tells me that’s not why my heart picks up its pace.
Calvin’s elongating fangs show as he growls, “We’ve been having a bit of a long week, and I’m not above leaving a shitty Yelp review.”
Bear can’t seem to decide whether to keep his eyes on Calvin’s toothy grimace or the claws emerging from his fingertips, digging into the host stand with a series of ominous cracking pops.
Calvin shakes himself like he’s trying to hold himself back even though it’s clear to me he’s never been more in control.
He’s nothing if not a good public performer.
Bear’s eyes widen. “All right, all right. Gemma, Wolff, and waffles for your boyfriend. Take a seat wherever you want,” he says to Calvin, typing on the tablet with one hand and reaching for the old-school landline on the wall with the other.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” I say smugly as we head straight for the corner booth in the back of the empty restaurant.
“Hold the maple syrup,” Calvin calls over his shoulder, “and make sure the waffles have strawberry sauce and whipped cream! And a side of bacon.”
“Anyone ever tell you it’s presumptuous to change someone’s food order?” I say mildly.
“You’re welcome. You hate maple syrup, and I don’t want to listen to you complain about it for the next three hours.”
“Well, thanks,” I say, deciding to overlook the fact Bear called me Calvin’s boyfriend and Calvin didn’t correct him.
He has pretty well moved into the Winnebago, and our nights are no longer platonic, exactly.
We haven’t talked about what we are. Boyfriend, girlfriend, friend with benefits, I’m no longer sure.
But as we’re on the run, I don’t know that normal-relationship rules apply.
But there’s the fact he knows exactly how I like my waffles.
It’s an indicator of an intimacy I need to squash before it’s too late to salvage our friendship.
We have more important things to worry about at the moment, though.
Only two minutes later, I spot Gemma herself emerging from the kitchen.
For being closed, this Waffle House is quick.
She must have been here all along. Much like the Winnebago, the Waffle House has a secret basement.
It isn’t magical, though, just ordinary office and lab space.
Well, ordinary enough for a supernatural protection agency run out of a Waffle House.
She moves in a determined jog, tossing her long locs over her shoulder with more elegance than I could ever hope to have.
Somehow she’s effortlessly juggling a massive water bottle and cell phone in one hand and a waffle platter in the other, her overstuffed canvas messenger bag slung across her chest and making her look like a misplaced PhD student.
An overly full keychain jingles on a carabiner attached to her jeans’ belt loop, and a sheaf of folded papers sticks out from her pocket.
Gemma always appears deceptively disorganized, but I’ve never met anyone more detail oriented.
Only the bags under her eyes give away how much she must have on her plate right now.
“Reggie! Good to see you, love!” she says with genuine delight. She sets our orders on the table and hugs me tight. “Where’s Eldi?” she asks, looking around eagerly, as if expecting her to pop out from under the table.
“The agency took her, night before last. That’s why we’re here.” The words aren’t easy to say. I feel like an irresponsible parent.
“Oh, Reggie,” Gemma says with pity in her dark brown eyes.
She doesn’t ask why they took her. So she does know Eldi isn’t a normal child.
I did wonder, but she’s never mentioned it outright.
“Wolff should be here any minute. You can tell us what happened. He’s at home getting some rest. We’ve been here full time when we’re not out following leads and investigating all the UFOs and crop circles.
The government finally admitted aliens exist. Can you believe it? ”
Wolff arrives before I’ve finished scarfing down waffles, and slides into the booth next to Gemma. “Wolff, Gemma, this is Calvin. Calvin is a werewolf,” I say by way of introduction. Gemma and Wolff look interested but far from shocked—not much surprises them.
Calvin reaches a hand across the booth, shakes Gemma’s hand, then offers it to Wolff, who only raises an eyebrow and sniffs.
“Calvin St. James?” Wolff says. “Skeptical podcaster and YouTuber who once called me ‘a fearmongering crock whose wild conspiracy theories lack even a shred of scientific evidence’?”
“That’s the one,” I say cheerfully.
“New evidence has recently come to my attention,” Calvin says, withdrawing his hand with a cringe. “I admit I may have come to the wrong conclusion on several matters.”
“That certainly explains your mysterious lack of new episodes,” Wolff says. “Rumors of your demise have been greatly exaggerated, it would seem. Guess that solves one of our recent mysterious disappearances.”
“Wolff,” Gemma warns him sharply.
Wolff looks like his code name; I’ll give him that.
Large and wiry, with a graying beard. He’s one of those types that wears exclusively flannel and Carhartt’s and looks like he should be out riding horses and rounding up cattle.
But he’s more at home behind a dual monitor tucked in an artificially lit basement.
His fresh sunburn is the sole indication he isn’t a vampire that only emerges in the dark of the night.
“I swear, Reggie,” Wolff begins, “if you’ve dragged me out of bed for your own amusement again, I will never—”
“One time I’m wrong about the validity of a Sasquatch sighting—”
“You dragged us on a wild-goose chase and wasted our time and resources because you thought it was funny.”
“In my defense, it was pretty funny.” It was actually a diversion because I didn’t need attention drawn to something else, but it didn’t hurt that it ruined Wolff’s week.
“Children, children,” Gemma chides.
“What do you want?” Wolff says brusquely. “In case you haven’t noticed, we were right. Aliens are real, and consequently, we’re kind of busy.”
“That’s kind of why I need you,” I say. “I’m pretty certain Eldi is one of them, the aliens, I mean. Agency 51 took her, and I need to get her back.”
Wolff’s lack of reaction confirms it. The Whistlemen already suspected what Eldi is.