by Dayton Ward
“You’ve got that thousand-yard stare going,” Alana said after a moment, breaking through his reverie. “You’re not trying to create your own make-believe world, are you?”
It was only then that Baldwin realized he had just swallowed the last bite of the sandwich in his hand, and he looked down to see that the other half remained on the otherwise empty plate before him. “Guess I was hungrier than I thought,” he said. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” she replied, every word she spoke possessing an almost lyrical quality owing to her Tahitian accent. Swiping his coffee mug for a quick sip, she turned her attention to the files littering the dining table. “Making any progress on this?”
“Not really,” Baldwin said, shaking his head as some of his frustration returned. “I can’t really talk too much about it.”
Alana shrugged. “I’m not asking for details, Thomas. I was speaking to the process of your investigation, not the content.”
Snorting, Baldwin replied, “That’s just it. The content is the biggest stumbling block.” He paused, taking a drink from his coffee. “When Ryland told me I’d have access to every bit of information, I figured there’d be boxes of papers to sort through and there’d be no way I’d get through it in a week.” He gestured toward the paperwork before him. “Instead, I get this, most of which I read twelve years ago.” Picking up one of the folders he had been reading earlier, he held it up for her to see. “Hell, I wrote some if it twelve years ago.”
Alana frowned. “So, none of it’s of any use to you?”
“Nothing I don’t already know,” he replied, dropping the file back onto the table. He reached up to rub his face. “Well, nothing that I’m not remembering once I read it again.” At the moment, it was as much about reminding himself what the files no longer contained. Before being transferred to NTAC, all of the FBI files had been reviewed by someone from the CIA, assisting Bureau record keepers to eliminate information stemming from fabricated evidence, false leads, and other such distractions perpetrated by the Agency in its bid to keep secret Lona Callahan’s true identity. The downside was that Baldwin remembered as much of the FBI reports created from that falsified data as he did the few pieces of actual, relevant evidence, and trying to filter it out as he refreshed his memory was proving more difficult than he had anticipated. As for the files from the CIA itself, they were little more than official dossiers and after-action reports, all brief and terse, with little to assist Baldwin in further understanding the fugitive he sought, though NTAC had been promised additional information as it was cleared by Agency officials.
Yeah. This is me, holding my breath.
“I see,” Alana said after a moment. “At least, I think I see.”
Baldwin blew out his breath between pursed lips, leaning back in his chair and once more stretching tired muscles. “It probably doesn’t help that I haven’t really thought about this case in I don’t know how long. I know some agents can’t let old jobs go, but this was one of my first cases, and when it went cold I was transferred to other assignments.” He shrugged. “I know it’s an open case, but the truth is I never thought it would be solved, and I damned sure didn’t think I’d be the one trying to solve it. Not after all this time.”
“That may have been true once,” Alana said, “but I can see the fire in your eyes.”
Baldwin nodded, taking another drink from the coffee mug. “It’s like one of those old spy movies, where the hero gets sent on this special mission and he thinks he’s doing the right thing, then he finds that they sent him to kill one of his own guys.” He reached again for one of the files, spinning it on the table beneath his finger. “We’ve just been told that hundreds of us were kept from doing our jobs by people we thought were working with us, not against us. The only reason we’re involved now and still not getting fed a CIA smoke screen is that Callahan’s a 4400. That puts NTAC in charge, and me under the gun to find her. I want to get her this time, and put the case to bed for good.” He rubbed his temples. “I just hope I can do it before I drive myself blind from the paperwork.”
Reaching across the table, Alana took his hand in hers. “You need a break, Thomas.” She squeezed his hand. “I can help with that, if you let me, even if it’s just for a short while.”
They had talked about experimenting with Alana’s abilities, but never had actually explored doing so since that fateful first encounter. Baldwin had wondered just how far she could immerse them in their shared world before his rational mind lost all connection to reality. How long could it last? In theory, she could take his hand for just a few moments and provide him the restorative mental rest of a week’s stay at a tropical resort. She might whisk them both to medieval Scotland, or even a space station with a wondrous view of Saturn’s rings. His mind reeled at the possibilities.
“Tempting,” he said. “Very tempting.” He looked into her eyes, mulling over what fantasy they might try first, until he heard the telltale sound of the back door opening and slamming shut, followed by familiar footsteps crossing the kitchen. “Maybe later.”
Alana regarded him with a wistful smile as she leaned closer to whisper. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Any response Baldwin might offer faded as he looked up to see his son emerging from the kitchen. “Hey, Kyle.”
Entering the dining room, Kyle Baldwin peeled himself out of his gray hooded sweatshirt. “Hey, guys,” he said, offering a mild, almost lifeless wave. Baldwin was struck yet again at how his son had grown into a healthy young man of twenty-one, something he feared would never happen during the three agonizing years Kyle spent comatose in a hospital bed. Of all the miracles that had accompanied the return of the 4400, Baldwin was most thankful for Kyle’s revival, which came thanks to Shawn Farrell, a returnee and Baldwin’s own nephew. Shawn had returned possessing incredible powers of healing, and used them to free Kyle from the grip of his coma. Given a second chance to right some of the mistakes he had made when Kyle was younger, Baldwin had rededicated himself to maintaining a connected and honest relationship with the son he feared lost forever.
For a moment, Kyle stood there looking at the two of them as though he knew he should say something but just could not come up with the words. Baldwin offered a smile and a way out of the situation. “How was the movie?” When Kyle’s unreadable expression did not change in response to the question, Baldwin wondered whether he had actually paid attention when Kyle left the house earlier in the evening. “You did say you were going to a movie, right?”
Kyle nodded, clearing his throat. “Yeah. I did, but I didn’t.”
Laughing at that, Baldwin asked, “Help your old man out, will you? You did, or you didn’t?”
“No, sorry,” Kyle said. “I did say I was going, but I ended up not going.” He shrugged as he moved to drape his sweatshirt over the back of one of the dining chairs. “I ended up driving around instead.”
Alana started to rise from her seat. “Are you hungry? I can fix something.”
“No,” Kyle replied, rather sharply, then looked as surprised by his own outburst as Baldwin felt. “I mean, no, thank you, Alana. Don’t go to the trouble. I’m really not hungry.”
Baldwin frowned, paternal instinct rearing its head. “You okay, Kyle? Something on your mind?”
“Dad, it’s—” Kyle started to answer, then shook his head. “I’m fine, really.” Stepping away from the table, he grabbed his sweatshirt and headed toward the living room. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you guys. I’m sorry.”
“You’re not an interruption, Kyle,” Baldwin said, calling out as he heard his son heading upstairs. “Kyle?”
“Thomas,” Alana said, putting her hand on his arm, “maybe he just needs a little space tonight. It’s okay.”
“Space? Space from what?” Baldwin scowled as she looked upward and shrugged in a self-deprecating manner. “From you?”
She nodded. “Well, you said it was hard enough for you to fully accept. Imagine what it must be like for him to a
djust to the new woman in his father’s life.”
“You’re hardly new,” Baldwin said automatically, before catching himself. Holding up a hand, he added, “Okay, point taken, but I thought the two of you were hitting it off, and I know from…from our time together how much you love and support him. He’ll come around, sooner or later.”
Alana smiled, patting his hand. “He might come around sooner if his father helps him out a bit.” She nodded toward the table. “Maybe you could set this aside for tonight and go spend some time with your son. I’ll clean up here and be upstairs in a little while.”
“Thanks,” he said, leaning in again for a soft kiss. Her hair brushed against his cheek as he pressed his lips to hers, feeling her warmth.
Pulling away, she rose from her chair and nodded toward his plate. “And be a good dad. Take him something to eat.”
Baldwin snatched the remaining half of his sandwich, shoving nearly a third of it into his mouth. “Hey, the kid said he wasn’t hungry,” he countered, smiling around the wad of meat loaf and bread.
Bounding up the stairs, he saw the door to Kyle’s room shut with no light showing from beneath it. He frowned, wondering if the inroads he had made with his son in recent months might again be starting to slip away. With that in mind, he rapped softly on the door, then opened it. Light from the hallway split the room and illuminated Kyle as he lay on his bed, his back to the door.
He can’t be asleep already.
Baldwin entered the room, making his way to the edge of the bed. “Kyle?” He reached out to place his hand on his son’s shoulder, and in that instant his son spun around, a startled look on his face.
“Whoa!” Baldwin said, jerking back his hand.
“What?” Kyle’s expression shifted from surprise to frustration as he gripped a pair of white wires lying along his chest and pulled the speaker buds from his ears.
“Sorry,” Baldwin said, trying to force a smile. “You scared the crap out of me, too. We’re even, okay?”
“Okay, I’m sorry, too,” Kyle said, catching his breath. “What’s up?”
Baldwin shrugged. “I just wanted to check in, see how you’re doing.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Kyle replied. “I’m just tired, is all.”
Taking a seat on the edge of the bed as Kyle swung his legs to one side to make room, Baldwin said, “Look, I’m also sorry about all the late nights. Things are pretty crazy at work right now.”
“I figured,” Kyle said, his fingers playing with the wires connecting the earbuds to his portable music player. “Jordan Collier, right?” He lowered his gaze to look at the floor. “You any closer to finding who did it?”
Baldwin released a tired snort. “Truthfully, no, but something’s going to break soon. No one wants this thing to go cold. It’s just a matter of finding the right lead or talking to the right person.” If experience had taught him anything it was that one lucky break, one seemingly innocuous clue, might be all he needed to break the whole thing wide open.
“Yeah,” Kyle said, his voice almost a mumble.
Sensing that his son was keeping something to himself, Baldwin said, “Don’t think for a minute that I’m not here for you if something’s bugging you, okay? You know you’re my first priority, Kyle. You always have been, even if I did a lousy job of showing it a lot of the time.”
Kyle nodded. “I know, Dad. I know,” he said, still not looking up.
“Want to try that once more with some feeling?” Baldwin asked, smiling and hoping a lighter tone might break through the tension he still felt between them. Patting Kyle’s leg, he said, “Seriously, if there’s something you want to talk about, hit me with it.”
Kyle looked up, shaking his head. “I’m just tired, Dad. Honest.”
Take the hint, Dad.
“Gotcha,” Baldwin said, rising from the bed. “If I miss you tomorrow, remember that Alana’s here. I know everything with her is pretty damned strange, but trust me when I say she loves you, okay?”
Kyle smiled in a way that Baldwin could sense was a little forced. “I know. It’s just taking a bit of getting used to, you know? You have to admit the whole thing’s kinda weird.”
“Welcome to my world,” Baldwin said as he stepped to the door. “Weird is pretty much my whole job these days.” Now back in the hallway, he was about to pull the door shut behind him when he heard his son call out one more time.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Seriously,” Kyle said. “Thanks. I do trust you, you know.”
Baldwin turned to look in the room, a sliver of light from the hall illuminating his son’s face. “I know,” he said. “Get some sleep.”
“Good night, Dad.”
Baldwin pulled the door closed, feeling secure with the knowledge that Kyle did trust him and would come to him with whatever problems he might be experiencing. Baldwin only hoped for his own sake that it would be sooner rather than later.
Whoever said parenting only gets easier over time, he thought as he walked back to the stairs, was never a parent.
FIFTEEN
NTAC
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
“HEY, CHECK IT out! Looks like it’s finally going down.”
Diana Skouris started at the sound of Marco Pacella’s voice echoing across the dimly lit Theory Room, causing her to look up from the notes she was taking during their conversation about Lona Callahan. “What?” she asked, irritated by the interruption. It was barely after ten in the morning, and already she felt exhausted. The late night spent studying Callahan’s less than helpful CIA files had not added to her good cheer, and the last thing she needed was Marco going after whichever half-dozen things might attract his attention at any given moment.
You called us down here, remember?
Pulling away from the conference table situated at the center of the room, Marco now was focusing on the oversized projection screen dominating the far wall. Displayed upon the screen was an image of a young woman, smartly dressed in a blue jacket and matching skirt and with her blond hair pulled back from her face in a ponytail. She was talking into a handheld microphone, though Skouris could not hear what she might be saying.
“Turn it up,” Marco said.
Skouris frowned as she looked about the cluttered table, the top of which was hidden beneath a layer of file folders, computer disks and printouts, empty coffee cups, and a half-consumed box of doughnuts, but she saw no remote control or other device to adjust the volume on the screen. “How do you find anything in here?” she asked. The table and its detritus fit right in with the rest of the Theory Room. Located on the basement level of the NTAC headquarters building, the office was an amalgam of transparent marker boards bearing scrawled and all but illegible computations she had no hope of understanding, computer workstations connected by four times the wiring than looked necessary for the job, and racks of metal shelves crammed full with surplus electronic equipment and numerous other items Skouris did not recognize.
“Hello, volume please?” Marco said, turning back to the table and shuffling aside files and other debris until he located a compact remote control unit beneath the box of doughnuts and thumbed one of its buttons. In response, the voice of the woman on the screen promptly blared through the suite of recessed speakers installed around the room.
“—hind me is the rural cabin outside Golden, Colorado, where law enforcement officers and agents from the National Threat Assessment Command have focused their efforts and attention for six days. However, this morning, it appears that their standoff with 4400 returnee Eric Wheaton might be nearing an end.”
Good Lord, Skouris thought, wincing as she realized what this was about. How the hell did I forget about this?
“What are we watching?” she asked.
“A network affiliate from Denver,” Marco replied. “It’s the raw feed direct from the scene, not the broadcast signal. We’ll see everything they’re sending to the station.”
On the screen, the journ
alist said, “NTAC agents had been searching for Wheaton for the past several months. A returnee from 1982, Wheaton disappeared shortly after being released from quarantine, and failed to report for his regular scheduled medical screenings with the regional NTAC office once he settled here in Golden. However, when Homeland Security agents began linking Wheaton to a series of terrorist threats against government facilities—including the delivery of a crude improvised explosive device to the Federal Reserve Bank in Kansas City—NTAC took a definite interest in assisting with his apprehension.”
The reporter was walking now, and a whitewashed log-style cabin with a corrugated metal roof was coming into focus several dozen yards behind her, well beyond a cordon of yellow caution tape. Skouris shook her head, part of her feeling sorry for Wheaton. She did not begrudge him his choice of reclusive lifestyle; she knew that a number of the 4400 had found acclimation to their new world a challenge and had taken similar routes of retreat. His later actions, however, served to deflect any sympathy she might hold for him.
She heard the door open behind her and turned to see Tom Baldwin entering the room, a cup of coffee in each hand, having ended his brief respite from Marco’s rapid-fire litany of theories and questions about Lona Callahan and how she might fit into the ever-growing web of mystery surrounding the 4400. Walking around the table, he offered one of the cups to Skouris as he nodded toward the screen.
“Wheaton?” he asked.
Marco looked over his shoulder. “Yeah. Looks like he’s finally giving up.” Noting the fresh coffee both Baldwin and Skouris were drinking, he added, “I’m good, but thanks for asking.”
Ignoring the jab, Baldwin asked, “Surrendering without a fight? Not what I’d expect from him, but I’ll take it.”
Skouris nodded in agreement, also hoping for an uneventful conclusion to these events, which even now were being carried on the airwaves and Internet streams to uncounted viewers across the country and around the world. “Who’s on-site from the Denver office?”
