by Lou Paduano
“You’re killing them!” Morgan bellowed. Guns inched closer to cut her off from the general. “Listen to me. Just listen to me!”
“I have my orders.”
“But you don’t understand what this is,” she continued. “None of us understands what this is, what it could mean!”
“Morgan!” Ben yelled. The men surrounding him let go, his hands open to minimize the threat. He reached for her, but she fought against his efforts.
A soldier exited their vehicle, his search complete. He shuffled through the contents of her medical bag.
“Don’t you dare—” Morgan started before the armed figure removed the samples gathered at the convenience store during their altercation with June. He carefully placed them in a waiting container to the back of the closest jeep, then returned with the bag. Morgan snatched it from him, jaw clenched to match her fist.
Adams huffed at her anger, eyes reflecting the growing blaze despite the pouring rain. “Escort them to their colleague at the east checkpoint. I want this forest gone by sunrise.”
“Like a damn memory,” Morgan whispered.
“There’s nothing we can do, Morgan,” said Ben.
She shook her head. “No. There’s just nothing you care to do. There’s a difference.”
She left him in the center of the road. Soldiers escorted her to a waiting transport, but Ben held back. The fires burned faster and higher with each tree caught in the path of the cleanup crew tasked with the destruction.
Each tree. Each person. The city of Bellbrook.
And Ruth Heller.
“That’s not it, Morgan.” Ben’s fingers ran the length of his tie and the second splatter of blood marring the solid black of the fabric. There had been enough spilled tonight. He refused to add Morgan’s to the growing pattern. “That’s not it at all.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Three Days Later
Morgan strode through the ICU at Suburban Hospital in Bethesda, marking her third lap in the last hour, before finally stepping within the wing. Hospitals made her uneasy. Her history with them, in any and all forms, built up that tension and refused to abate, despite the years between being a practicing physician and whatever the hell she considered herself to be now.
A bouquet of daisies sat in her grip, the stems straining for release. Her nerves had little to do with the subject of her visitation to the anti-septic halls and more to do with the building itself. With each call, each code announced through the speakers, she walked faster. With each alert calling for assistance, with each crucial decision demanding to be made at a moment’s notice, her nerves frayed.
When she reached his empty room, she realized the futility of her visit. Lincoln had never been the ideal patient. Hell, neither was she. After Bellbrook, however, she had hoped, almost prayed he would take the time necessary to heal from his injuries.
Morgan surveyed the halls, stopping at the building directory. Immediately recognizing her destination, she started down to the first floor, taking two steps at a time.
The rehab center was a well-organized gymnasium. Balance beams and matted floors made up the left side of the expansive space. On the right, fitness machines ran in long rows, ranging from top-of-the-line ellipticals to treadmills. Free weights were positioned along the wall. The entire rear of the room was a basketball court where staffers contributed in a friendly game in-between shifts.
Lincoln curled a forty-pound weight with his bandaged arm. Each rep was met with anguish in his eyes. The pained look vanished when he noticed her at the door.
Morgan approached slowly. “They gave you a room. You should use it.”
“Been busy,” Lincoln replied. He lowered the weight with a groan. She tossed him a towel, and he wiped the thick coating of sweat glommed to his skin. “Nothing on television anyway.”
“You think you should be doing that?” Morgan stopped at the thin glare offered in response. They each dealt with the Bellbrook situation in their own way. She was no better, curled up on her couch while refusing to go into work, lost in her long-awaited book rather than face the reality they had witnessed. She wondered if she could ever face what happened, and knew, at some point, she would have no choice. Work was all she had left.
Lincoln joined her at the bench on the far side of the room, away from the rambunctious cheers of the basketball game.
She pointed to his arm. “How is it?”
“Fine,” he muttered. “Arm’s fine now.”
“About Ruth…”
Lincoln shook his head. “Don’t.”
“Look,” she pressed. “We lost Grissom. Now Ruth. It’s a lot to take. I know. Metcalf does too. But you? You don’t need to hide it anymore. About Ruth, I mean.”
He hesitated, holding his words in check. He did a much better job than she had when she’d returned home from their mission. The first hours were lost to grief, the next batch thrown into a fit of rage. She was still deciding which way was healthier, which did her the most good.
Morgan stood and set the bouquet next to Lincoln. “Right. I just wanted to check on you.”
She started for the door and paused at the sound of his voice. “I do get it, Morgan. What Ruth and I had was… well, it was what we needed. After losing Grissom the way we did? The choice we had to make…?”
“What happened wasn’t on you, Linc.”
Tears tucked back as he clenched his jaw tight. “It happened, and we’ve paid for it since. But don’t… don’t try and sell me on Metcalf giving two seconds of grief over Ruth. Or Grissom. We’ve both seen the wall. Just another name, another body, all for the glory of the DSA.”
“You don’t believe that,” Morgan said, hands to her hips. “You can’t. Come on, Lincoln. We do the job. Metcalf and the rest? No matter where we started they respect the work.”
“I used to think that. Now I see it for what it is. What we truly are.” He stood, wiping his eyes with his towel. He dropped it and lifted the bouquet. “We failed the first time around. It marked us, our shortcomings and our mistakes. The ones always dogging our steps. The truth is that we need them. We need the job. It’s all we have left. To them, though? We’re nothing but a body in a seat or a weapon to be used. Replaceable. Expendable.”
“I can’t accept that,” Morgan said. She reached for him, but he refused her advance. “Hey. We matter. The work matters.”
His eyes seethed with anger. “Keep believing that and your name will be on that wall next to Ruth’s. And for what? After what we saw, what we’ve seen even before Bellbrook. What is really going on out there?”
He turned to leave, but she held him back, fingers locked on his arm. “What happened when you went for help, Lincoln? Zac said you were muttering to yourself as the radio signal came back. What happened?”
Her hand fell away.
“Please. I want to help. I do. I think we both know…”
“Nothing,” he answered, his eyes cold and dark. To her, though, they were broken, shattered from the experience. Fear had won and refused to let go for even a second. It frightened her to see him, this strong, resilient figure in her life, brought low by their experience in the now lost town of Bellbrook, Ohio. “Nothing happened to me. Let it go, Morgan. Just like I have.”
“I can’t. You get that, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I wish to God I didn’t.”
He started for the door, and he stopped short next to the wastebasket. He dropped the flowers inside and continued, leaving her with his words, his anger, and most importantly his question.
What is really going on out there?
Morgan sat down on the bench, wishing she held an answer for the spiraling agent of the DSA. There were only more questions and a room full of silence in response.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ben’s sneakers squeaked along the freshly polished hall of the DSA warehouse. The bright canvas reflected the overhead lig
hts, and the blue laces rested tight along the red-and-white-stripe design. Patriotism came in many forms and he wore his well.
Stephanie looked up from her screen at his arrival and smiled.
“She in?”
“She is.” The personal assistant stood and circled the small desk. She leaned close, running her fingers along the twin bloodstains on his tie. She straightened it, fixing the twisted knot at his neck. It pulled taut and fell against his chest. “New kicks?”
“Not exactly the glass Skechers I was hoping for, but what do you think? Am I ready for the ball?”
“Is the ball ready for you might be the better question,” she responded with a laugh.
“I’ve been asking myself the same thing,” he said. She opened the door and he stepped inside, tossing her one last grin before she returned to work.
The question stuck with him. His role at the DSA, his place in the world. When this began he’d had a choice to make: to live the life he wanted, or endure a nightmare he didn’t deserve. Rather, it was what he believed to be a choice, though it wasn’t his own. It was Metcalf’s. The DSA or jail was no choice at all, yet it was the only offer on the table. He’d accepted, hoping for a chance to make it work. He’d hoped to figure things out along the way: to find some way to reclaim his former life.
Then Bellbrook happened. The incident had pulled and torn at everything decent about the world. It also gave him something more: a fight—he finally had something to fight for, and more importantly to fight against, in the form of the man behind the loss of seven thousand lives.
Metcalf sighed at his arrival, catching sight of the sneakers clashing against his black suit. “We really need a dress code.”
Ben grinned. He took the seat across from her as she removed her reading glasses and set them on the growing pile of reports.
“Personnel files?” he asked, catching sight of résumés among the detritus swarming the tabletop. “Already?”
“No choice,” she answered curtly. “Not that I have to explain my actions to you.”
Ben nodded. Sleep hadn’t come easily to him since their return. Some blame was due to the new apartment at the Edgemont and the lumpy mattress waiting for him. The main issue, however, was his dreams. Ruth had died by his side and there was nothing he could do to save her. There were no words to say. She died and he had been powerless to stop it. The act haunted him and would continue to do so until the man known as the Witness paid for his part in her death.
“You wanted to talk?” Ben inquired. “Is this about Agent Heller?”
“In a way,” Metcalf said. “Your report reflects the fact that proximity to the signal accelerated Agent Heller’s response?”
“That is my theory. It also explains why Morgan and Lincoln made it out all right.”
Metcalf rubbed at her chin, pen to paper in rapid strokes. “Since Agent Dunleavy arrived at the forest after the signal was silenced.”
“Correct,” Ben said. “Of course, if we had been in Bellbrook longer, who knows how it would have gone.”
“Small graces,” Metcalf commented, her voice soft.
“How long did Ruth—”
“A little more than two years. Grissom promoted her to the field team after a certain altercation,” Metcalf said with a smile. Her fingers grazed her chin. “Still feel that one every once in a while.”
“You deserve it?”
“Mr. Riley, I deserve everything that comes my way.”
“If we’re all set, then?” Ben’s hands propped up his body from the cold metal of the chair.
“You omitted one part,” Metcalf said. “Your own.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Why did he let you live?”
There is a reason you are here. A reason you have been chosen by them.
The nameless individual’s words followed Ben everywhere he went. If the Witness knew about his presence at the DSA, if he was aware of his recruitment so quickly, there must have been more to it than a simple set of circumstances. Why had he been chosen out of so many others? The résumés strewn about her desk were evidence that more qualified agents waited for the position.
Ben shook his head. “I’m not sure. Some of what Howard Clevinger mentioned, some of what Morgan believes as well according to her report, but there may have been a secondary trigger. Environmental. Possibly in the water supply or a local food source. Ruth was injured, so it may have been bloodborne. Morgan had a sample, but—”
“Adams took it.”
“They were so concerned about our presence, yet they have nothing on the man who triggered all this.” The soldiers sent to clean up the forest of Bellbrook had been efficient in their destruction, yet had found no trace of the Witness in their work, since they were so busy removing all evidence of the event from the world.
“About this Witness, as you call him,” Metcalf started. “Nothing more coming to you about him? His face? Accent? Features?”
“My reference to Major Toht wasn’t enough for you?” Ben asked. He twisted his hand into a claw and reached for the director. “‘Fraulein Ravenwood, let me show you what I am used to.’”
Metcalf dropped her pen to the notepad to pinch the bridge of her nose.
“No love for Raiders of the Lost Ark at all?”
“You’re not winning me over.”
“He was smart,” Ben continued. “Kept his distance. Something tells me he won’t for long though.”
“Great. So much for sleep in the near future.”
Ben agreed. “I did want to discuss the other site.”
Metcalf folded her fingers on her desk. “Spring Hill.”
“Did Modine find anything?”
“Exactly what you thought,” Metcalf replied. She opened her desk drawer and laid out satellite photos atop the growing mass of files. “I had to go through some back channels to get these. No one is answering my requests at the Department of Defense or General Adams’ office. Not even to discuss the events in Ohio. Now I know why.”
Ben lifted the images of the town. It was the same as Bellbrook in its emptiness. There were no people in the photos, only empty vehicles and empty storefronts. Everything was broken down and forgotten. Ben paused at the sight of the town’s outskirts. Fences loomed at all major roadways. Gates barred the path, and army personnel surveyed the grounds outside Spring Hill. Containment. Just like Bellbrook.
“They knew,” he muttered. “They knew about Spring Hill the whole time.”
“So it would appear. As well as what happened to the residents.” Another image shot across the desk. Trees covered the photo—another forest overtaking a school football field. Metcalf pointed at the revelation. “It cropped up overnight.”
“Like Bellbrook,” he said, his voice lost to the images. “And the public has no clue.”
She shook her head. “Chemical spills. Water contamination. I’m not sure how they’ll spin this latest incident, but I’ve been told a story is being put together to explain the whole thing away without anyone getting a decent look.”
“At the truth,” Ben huffed.
“The truth is what people are told, Ben.”
“Forests,” Ben snapped. “Forests of people. Just like that. This is what you do? This is what the DSA handles?”
“Today,” Metcalf said. “This is what we do today. Tomorrow is another story.”
“We should take a look,” Ben said. “Call in the CDC. They should have enough pull to make sure we can—”
“No point.”
“What?” Ben barked. The door opened behind him. Stephanie peered in to check over the situation. Both Metcalf and Ben waved her off, the latter swallowing hard to calm his nerves. “Of course there is a point, Metcalf.”
“Director,” she clarified. “And you misunderstand.”
She opened the report and another image fell out. Ben lifted it.
“Seriously?”
“I had Zac continue to
monitor Spring Hill. This came back last night.”
Ben dropped the photo on the desk with the others. The forest was gone, the roots ripped from the earth. Not burned, but taken. Someone was covering their tracks. Maybe the Witness, maybe someone else entirely.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Ken Bertram had never seen the CBG Corp. Processing Plant before. He had never even heard of CBG Corp. before pulling into the lot. Trucking was in his past. A mistake had cost him a lucrative career in the industry—one that had taken the life of a man with poor timing in crossing the street.
Odd jobs became the only jobs for Ken. He subbed for different contractors when they needed an extra pair of hands. His wife preferred it. His kids were on the fence. Having Ken home meant life changed for them. His priorities had never meshed with the rest of the family.
When the call came he believed it to be a ruse. Some prank by his old firm, trying to pay him back for the publicity nightmare they’d created in the first place by forcing him to drive sixteen-hour shifts for weeks on end.
It wasn’t. The voice, strong and confident, needed people who could keep a secret. The cash promised at the end was too much to ignore. His family held a feast prior to his departure, though it seemed to be more of a celebration at his upcoming absence.
It didn’t bother him. Their displeasure at his distance, their inability to understand the shame he felt at his mistake and a decade of silence on the road, made family a difficult concept to fathom let alone stomach on a daily basis.
He met the other seven drivers outside Chicago to pick up the trucks. An overnight trek to Kansas brought them to their destination, and they started back fully loaded. That was when the first deviation arrived. It came in the form of a message passed between drivers and was followed by three more over the course of two days.
Not small detours either. Each one pulled them hundreds of miles from their original destination in South Bend. The drivers followed their individualized routes and changed course, splitting from the caravan that had kept Ken alert and aware of every hazard on the road ahead.
