by Val Tobin
Dear Rachel,
If you’re reading this, something has happened to me. Yeah, sorry, it’s one of those letters. I hate to involve you, but I don’t know who else to trust. Not Dad, that’s for sure. He’s the one we need to keep all this from. Don’t go to him for anything. We can’t trust him.
Rachel paused her reading and looked up as Peter entered the room.
“Hey, what’s going on?” he asked. “You look upset.”
“I’ll tell you in a minute.”
He strolled to the coffeemaker. “I’m making another pot. You want?”
She shook her head. As he went to the cupboard to get the package of coffee, she moved to her home office and shut and locked the door. She sat at her desk and resumed reading.
I’ve been experimenting on grendels. I know that’s not news to you because that’s basically my job, but I mean I’m doing my own experiments. In secret. Rachel, these creatures didn’t evolve here naturally.
No shit, she thought. She continued reading.
Again, I suppose that’s not news to you, but I have proof. I’ve isolated and examined their DNA. It’s fascinating. They’re part monkey, part caterpillar, part hyena, part fucking human. Did you know they start out as larvae? Unbelievable, I know.
I can’t explain everything in this letter. That’s what the memory stick is for. Read through the reports on it. Take it to a scientist you trust if you have questions. I wish I could be there to help you, but obviously something has happened to me or you wouldn’t be reading this.
A friend has this on hand and, if he did his job, he mailed it to you as soon as he knew I was gone.
Her throat constricted, and she gave a choked moan. He’d expected something like this. Her brother had feared for his life and hadn’t told her about the danger. A spasm of anger made her want to crush the letter in her hand and throw it against the wall. She stifled the urge. No time for what-ifs. She’d gone through all those scenarios already. It hadn’t helped her yesterday, and it wouldn’t help her today. The anger she felt now was grief, she told herself. She wanted Jeff back and he’d never return.
She needed to focus on what he wanted her to do with the information he’d sent her. She hoped she could fulfil whatever mission he had in mind for her.
Peter contacted me for an interview. As of this writing, I haven’t discussed anything with him. I’m waiting to get everything collated. He’ll want to read these reports. He’s wanted to investigate the origins of the grendels for a long time. This information should help him.
I’m sorry if this causes you trouble. I never meant to harm anyone. All I’ve ever wanted is to learn the truth, especially where it concerned our father and his company. He’s a sociopath. I’m convinced of that. He’s responsible for Mom’s death. He and his company created these monsters. They mutated genes and these things developed from them. I’m disgusted by what he’s done.
Why would he do this? Good question. Follow the money. Follow it to military and defence contracts. Imagine if the grendels could be controlled? Weaponized? What could they use them for? Their imaginations are the only limit and Dad makes money from it—ultimately, they’re his pets. His company is working on a solution he can sell to people to protect them from the monsters he created.
Think that one through: he creates monsters and then develops a product people must buy from him to keep them at bay. I suspect he’s got a repellent in the works, but I can’t prove it. The grendels are a huge cash cow for Dad and his company—as long as people don’t know he created them in the first place.
Follow the money. Follow where our family’s money originates. The cottage? We all know Mom’s family owned it. She inherited it when Grams and Gramps passed away. Twenty years ago, Dad started his business and focused on genetic research.
Don’t know how much family history you know, but I dug into it despite Dad. He never told us much, and now I know why. Do you know our family name isn’t originally Needham? It’s Neumann, and our family comes from Germany. That’s fine, as far as it goes, but I found out our ancestors rose up through the Nazi ranks and some of them became scientists doing genetic research for Hitler.
A sick sensation formed in Rachel’s gut, and her mouth went dry. That’s impossible. Please, be impossible.
She took a deep breath and continued reading.
Everything I found, all my sources, are documented in the files on the memory stick. Don’t lose it. Make a copy and put it in a safe place. Do what I’ve done, and send it to someone you trust in case something happens to you. If Dad discovers you know all this, you’ll end up as dead as I probably am.
If we haven’t talked about this before, I’m sorry you had to find out this way. Help Peter investigate. Give him a copy of the files on the memory stick. People need to know what really happened. Dad made his money on the corpses of our friends and relatives. His company, the company he started with government and private funding, births evil. Trust no one at Dad’s company. They’re all in it.
Trust no one outside the company either. Dad has friends in high places, and I don’t know which ones are in on his scheme. Politicians, for sure, from all levels of government. Our greatest hope is a journalist. Help Peter expose this. I’ve failed, so it’s up to you.
I love you, sis. I hope we have many years together after I expose our father and his unethical, immoral company. But I don’t count on it so this letter and this memory stick are my insurance. Take care, and go get ’em, Rache.
Love, Jeffy
The use of the diminutive burst the dam that had built inside her as she’d read. She let the tears flow unrestrained. Sobs wracked her body, and she gulped in air, unable to control herself. From a box on the desk, she grabbed a tissue and held it to her face. The sobs didn’t let up until she heard pounding on the door and Peter’s voice on the other side of it.
“Rachel? You all right? Let me in. Let me help you. Please.”
“I’m fine,” she cried out between gasps.
“You’re not. I hear you crying. Did something else happen? You’re worrying me.”
She rose from her chair, the letter fluttering to the ground, stumbled to the door, and opened it. Peter stepped into the room and immediately took her in his arms. She buried her face in his shoulder.
“Shh. It’s okay. Tell me what happened. Is it Jeff?”
Her breath hitched at the mention of her brother, and the anguished sobs renewed full force.
“What’s that on the floor?” Peter asked. “What happened? Is it about Jeff?”
Her face still pressed into his shoulder, she nodded.
“May I read it?”
Again, she nodded, this time pulling away from him. Peter rested his hands on her shoulders, comforting her with his touch.
“Read it so I don’t have to tell you what’s in it. He wanted you to read it.”
Gently, Peter walked her to the desk and eased her into the chair. He snatched the letter off the floor, slid a hip onto the edge of the desk, and read.
Chapter Fifteen
By the time Peter finished reading Jeff’s letter, Rachel had pulled herself together. Her sobs had ceased, and she’d used up another tissue drying her eyes and blowing her nose. Excusing herself, she went to the powder room off the front foyer to rinse her face. She returned to the office, feeling strangely calm.
Peter sat in the chair, the letter on the desk beside him, his head angled down as he stared at the floor.
“What do you think,” Rachel asked.
He shook his head. “I’m still processing it. You believe it’s true? What he says about your father?”
“In your investigations into the grendels, did you ever find anything to connect them to my dad’s company?”
“No, but it’s not as if they’d leave a tag on them.”
“We won’t know more until we read Jeff’s files. Maybe we don’t have to go to Storm Lake after all,” she said, her voice hopeful. If Jeff had proof of what he claimed,
Peter could use it to write his story. They wouldn’t have to risk their lives and the lives of her team.
“Perhaps. But we need to find evidence. A gut feeling, sure, but that’s where it all started. That little girl was the first human to fall victim to the grendels. After that, people fell like dominoes. The creatures got bigger, bolder. It was an invasion.”
“I remember.” Her heart throbbed as the memories flooded back. Spike. Mom. The little girl next door. The people at the marina. “Oh, God, so many people. They died so horribly.”
She walked to the desk and leaned on it, facing Peter. “We need to fire up the computer and view these files.”
He rose and waved her into the chair. “Do it.”
***
Most of the reports were scientific and gibberish to Rachel and Peter. While Rachel understood more than Peter did, she couldn’t draw any conclusions from what she found. Should they take this to the authorities or release it to the public in a news report? No. They’d need to do more research to follow through on either option. At the very least, they’d need to find someone to explain to them what they viewed.
They discovered a map of North America, shaded to show the spread of the grendels from initial discovery to major infestation. This made it obvious the area in and around Rachel’s cottage was ground zero for the creatures.
“Storm Lake again. It always goes back to Storm Lake. Something’s here, but we just don’t see it,” she said. “Jeff died over this.”
“Probably.”
“I’ll make two more copies. You take one.”
“Who will you trust with the other?” Before she could respond, he said, “Not Hound Dog.”
When she opened her mouth to protest—that was exactly who she planned to give it to—he said, “He’s too close to you. He’s part of your team. Since you’re often together, if something happens to you, something will likely happen to him. I’m going with the odds. Nothing personal to Hound Dog.”
Rachel saw the logic in that.
“I’ll mail it to my lawyer.” She figured she could drop it off today. “I’ll make sure I’m not followed.” The paranoia building inside her unnerved her. Had Jeff’s life been like this for the last who knew how long? “God, what a mess. How did it get to this? My dad? Could he be responsible for these monsters?” Her eyes pleaded with him. “Who could be that stupid?”
“Money’s always the motive when it comes to shady experiments. Or power. How does that fit?”
“I intend to find out. Jeff said not to tell my father, but he didn’t say I shouldn’t question him.”
“Awfully risky, don’t you think?”
“He’s my father.”
“Yes, and it’s possible he murdered your brother—or had him murdered.”
“My brother made a lot of mistakes. He was too vocal about ferreting out the people responsible for all this terror we’ve had to live with.” She stopped speaking and her eyes grew wide. “Terror.”
“What?” Peter asked.
“Would these creatures be used as weapons?”
“Too unpredictable and uncontrollable. Doesn’t seem likely,” he replied.
“Sure, the prototypes are. These might be the beta tests.” She stood straight. “I’m paying my old man a visit.”
When an expression of panic flickered across Peter’s face and he leaned toward her in his chair, she said, “Relax. I won’t ask him any direct questions. I’ll scope the place out and discuss Jeff’s funeral with him.”
“Don’t tell him we plan to visit Storm Lake.”
“No, of course not, but I’ll try to learn how it connects.”
He threw her a dubious look but didn’t press the point. Together, they left the office.
***
Stefan Needham’s office was housed in the upper floor of the huge four-story building that made up his company’s head offices and laboratories. Located on the outskirts of the city of Peterborough, Ontario, electrified fencing topped with barbed wire surrounded it. When Rachel pulled up to the front gate in her SUV, she noted the repairs had been done. The gates, the guardhouse, all of it looked as if nothing had happened.
As if Jeff were never here. As if her father wanted to erase her brother’s existence—but that was ridiculous. Jeff’s letter had made her irate and suspicious. She had to investigate it herself and make an informed decision. While she could believe her father’s pursuit of money and power might cause him to hurt even those he loved, she doubted he’d kill them over it. He was their father. Of course they’d repaired the gate and the guard station. Anyone would. She shook off the fury so she wouldn’t be tempted to do or say something stupid.
At the guard station, she pulled over and showed her driver’s license for ID, keeping her protector badge in her jacket pocket. On this visit, she came as her father’s daughter not as a protector.
The guard waved her through, providing her with a parking pass and visitor’s badge. The badge had her name on it in gold lettering on a black background, identifying her as a VIP guest. This meant she could walk around on her own in the office hallways, but she wouldn’t be permitted in the lab facilities without an escort who had clearance.
Familiar with the layout even though she hadn’t visited in several years, she made her way to the corner office on the fourth floor. The plaque on the wall to the right of the office door read “Stefan Needham, CEO.” The door stood propped open, allowing visitors to see the assistant at his desk in the reception area.
Rachel stepped through the threshold and greeted the young man who’d been her father’s right hand for the last five years.
“Hi, Avery, how are you?”
“Fine, thank you, Miss Needham. I’m very sorry for your loss.” His deep voice soothed, like the low rumble of percolating coffee. His dark brown skin was smooth and clear, his suit always perfectly tailored and impeccable. She’d always thought he could have been a male model. He carried himself with a grace she could never match if she practised for a decade.
“Thank you.” She wondered if he was part of the conspiracy—if a conspiracy existed.
Avery had a family. Would he do anything Stefan Needham ordered even if it compromised his ethics as long as he was paid well for it? As an assistant, he’d see much of Stefan’s business, be aware of his appointments. It might help her to ask him a few questions.
Rachel tilted her head at her father’s closed office door. “He’s in there?”
“Yes,” Avery glanced at the multi-line phone. “On the phone. I’ll watch for him to hang up and then announce you’re here. Please, have a seat. May I get you a cup of coffee or tea?”
“Thank you. Coffee would be nice. Milk and sugar.” She walked to the elegant couch across from the reception desk and sat down. Magazines fanned out on the coffee table before her, and as a distraction, she picked one up without looking at it. Avery left the desk and strode across the room to make her coffee.
She scanned the room, futilely searching for anything out of place. What could be in the reception area that would have bearing on Jeff’s death?
Avery set the cup and saucer on the coffee table and gave Rachel a small bow. “Anything else you need, let me know.”
“Thanks.” She wondered what else she might need—other than to question him about Jeff. If she had time to kill, she should make use of it. She set the magazine down.
“Were you here when Jeff and his group protested outside this week?”
“Yes. I’m here all day every day unless I have an errand to run.”
“Did you see what happened?”
“No. The front gate isn’t visible from my windows.” As if to prove his point, he glanced toward the windows and then turned back to his computer.
“You must have heard about it.”
“Afterward, yes.”
This was excruciating. Avery refused to elaborate on anything.
“Dad must’ve been furious with Jeff.”
“I imagine so.”
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Rachel picked up the coffee cup and took a sip. It was rich and delicious. The aroma wafted up from the cup, and she almost moaned with pleasure. Avery always served excellent coffee here. Nothing but the best for her daddy.
His life was perfection. At least, on the outside. She supposed it had been perfection even on the inside, once, from his perspective. When Mom was alive. A loving wife. Two well-behaved children. The family had been his pride and joy. An emotional distance developed between them—he wasn’t demonstrative or affectionate—but she’d always believed he was fair and that, in his own way, he loved them.
She’d also believed she loved him too. Mom had loved him. She’d depended on him. They’d each had their roles. Dad provided; Mom nurtured. While Rachel didn’t understand the desire for traditional roles, she understood her mother had enjoyed being a stay-at-home mother.
They had money—lots of it, so Dad had wanted Mom to stay home and focus on raising the children. To be honest, they’d had nannies and housekeepers so Mom could also do the socialite thing with her other homemaker friends. The moms—yummy mummies, some called them, since they always dressed to kill even when taking their kiddies on a playdate—would shop, play tennis, and organize charity events and fundraisers for whatever causes they involved themselves in to keep busy and feel valued.
Rachel’s mom had been involved in her children’s schooling and active in the parents’ association. The perfect mother. As far as Rachel knew, her mother had been the perfect wife, too.
She’d entertained Stefan’s frequent business guests, planned parties and teas and dinners where million-dollar deals were made. Too bad Rachel hadn’t had the wits to eavesdrop on these affairs, but then, she had no idea the future held such danger and intrigue.
“Rachel.” Her father appeared at his office door, his black bangs drooping over his smooth forehead. She’d never noticed before how much he resembled Elvis Presley. He even had that quirky mouth. When she’d brought friends home as a teen, they’d swooned over him. A few of them had flirted blatantly with him.
