The Smiling Man Conspiracy (Evils of this World Book 2)

by C. J. Sears

  “Oh, Llewyn,” Kasey said, frowning.

  “I cheat death. Then I have to watch others die in front of me. Why? What’s my purpose? What does God want from me?”

  “Maybe there’s no purpose,” she said, not at all comfortable with his descent into philosophy, “we’re born. We die. That’s it.”

  Finch blinked at her. “I don’t believe that. I can’t.”

  “Why? Because of your sister?”

  “Yes. But it’s not just that. My gift, the one I used to have? It didn’t randomly vanish. In Lone Oak, I had my last three visions. Anna was in all of them.”

  Kasey stowed her suitcase. “You had dreams about your dead sister while you were on a stressful, life-threatening investigation. So what? Makes sense.”

  He moved to face her. “You don’t get it. It wasn’t only the fact she appeared in my dreams. She guided me. From beyond. She knew things about the case I couldn’t have at that point. The only explanation is supernatural.”

  “Like a guardian angel?”

  “No. I don’t think that’s biblical. But maybe God sent her spirit or soul or whatever to help me. Then she left, my visions along with her. After the Code Omega, all I’ve had are nightmares.”

  Kasey sprawled next to him on the bed, respecting his boundaries. “Describe them.”

  He did. Every agonizing detail. He’d told no one the specifics before, not even Willow. When Finch concluded, he waited for Kasey’s assessment.

  It was not what he expected.

  “You’re a prat,” she said, dipping into her long-diminished British accent. He’d forgotten she was a first-generation immigrant.

  “What?”

  “Those nightmares aren’t God punishing you. If anything, it’s a message telling you to stop thinking about it and forgive yourself. All you ever do is blame yourself when someone dies. Your sister. The people of Lone Oak. Let me guess: you blame yourself for Sinclair’s death too?”

  He hadn’t dreamt of the assistant director yet, but it was only a matter of time.

  “You know what I think? I think—if I remember my Anglican masses—that an all-loving God would want you to love yourself. Not in a selfish way, not in an ‘I can do whatever I want’ kind of way, but He’d want you to understand that you are a person made in His image. He already loves you. But you have to learn to love yourself.”

  The echo of Pastor Hartman’s sermon the previous morning was unnerving, but not in a distressing way. It made him feel lighter, unburdened.

  “Llewyn,” Kasey continued, “I’m not the best person to be talking about this. I mean, I tried to seduce you, didn’t I? I don’t know if I can believe in a higher power. But for your sake, I hope there is.”

  She turned off the bedside lamp. Exhausted, they didn’t bother to undress. The covers made him hot and clammy, but Finch slept through the night, free of delusions and monsters.

  *

  Esteemed microbiologist Richard Monahan and his equally proficient fiancée Charlotte Reynolds ambled through the electronic doors of the FRC on Friday morning with plastered smiles. Finch lamented the names and professions the organization had chosen for him and Kasey. The fake mustache and shaggy wig made him look like a sleazy adult film star. How in the world was he supposed to pass himself off as a scientist?

  The documentation was solid, and the badges looked every bit authentic, but Finch wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a prion and a proton. He had generic talking points, sure, but if anyone questioned his credentials, he was royally screwed.

  Kasey, by contrast, was predominately bright and bubbly. He had no idea why; she was no more a scientist than he was—although the spectacles made her ensemble more convincing.

  “I’m trying to stay positive,” she said when he pushed for a reason. “No one’s shooting at us or trying to murder us with a chainsaw. It’s an improvement.”

  He decided not to remind her that technically those examples were the same person.

  “The security countermeasures in this place could be lethal for all we know.”

  A guard ogled them from his station next to the elevator.

  “Richard, darling,” Kasey said, maintaining their cover, “this is a publicly funded facility where civilians can get a visitor’s pass and a tour of the lower levels. It won’t have targeting lasers and turrets.”

  Okay, maybe he was overreacting. But he still didn’t think they could pull this off.

  “I wish we had more time.”

  “We cased this place for three days,” she said. “That’s as much prep time as we’re liable to get.”

  A receptionist named Brenda greeted them at the front desk. Behind her, on a banner above the glass info-graph, were the words “Discovery is in the Details” printed in black ink.

  “Welcome to the Fairvale Research Center for Biological Anomalies, owned and operated by SysLife Corporation for twenty years,” she said. “How may I help you?”

  “I’m Richard Monahan. This is my fiancée, Charlotte,” Finch said.

  Brenda nodded. “We’ve been expecting you. What happened to Doctors Simon and Hartfield is tragic. It will be difficult to replace them.”

  “We’re more than qualified.”

  “Oh, I know! I read your files. An unparalleled scientist in the study of cyanobacteria and his fiancée, the foremost expert on Indonesian fungi? You’ll make fine additions to our team.”

  Brenda steered them to the elevator. The guard patted them down while an attendant scanned their badges and waved them through. So far, so good.

  Seven floors up, Phase 4 goaded them with its impregnability. Only approved employees had the keys necessary to unlock the elevator panel and access the top level. Unlike Conroy’s previous assistants, they were not part of a trusted circle.

  She met them on the fifth floor, which hosted the Phase 3 offices, but not its labs. She’d swirled her medium brown hair into a bun. A pair of wire-rimmed, half-framed glasses failed to conceal intense blues. Steely eyed and professional, Demi Conroy exuded perspicacity.

  “Doctor Monahan, Doctor Reynolds, I’m Director Conroy. You’re late. Follow me. I’ll show you to your office.”

  Finch’s stomach churned. Here was a woman he knew for a fact was partially responsible for the events that led to him taking the Lone Oak case. They had every notion to believe she was engaged in mad science. She was their prime target and they couldn’t do anything but listen to her giving directions.

  “Thank you, Director,” he said, thinking there were other choice words he’d like to use at that moment. Most of them were monosyllabic.

  Conroy ignored his gratitude, striding briskly through the white hallway that smelled of formaldehyde and a lack of conscience. She wasn’t the type to let basic human interaction interfere when discovery was at stake.

  Front entrance notwithstanding, every door in the facility operated with an electronic mechanism. Conroy swiped a keycard through the reader.

  It bleeped and lit up green, allowing them entry into the comically cramped room that used to belong to Doctors Simon and Hartfield. Two standard-issue utilitarian desks were grouped together in the center of the workspace. In any direction, a stray swing of the arm might knock over a lamp, a valuable instrument, or hit another person in the head. Finch’s unused office at BOPAC was the size of the White House lawn by comparison.

  “I trust that this will be sufficient for your needs,” said Conroy as if every spoken word grieved her.

  “We’ll be in the labs most of the day. This will be fine,” assured Kasey.

  “Absolutely,” said Finch, playing his part, “this is a godsend compared to Indonesia.”

  “The intercom is here if you require my assistance,” Conroy said, detesting that her role at FRC forced her to perform these perfunctory obligations.

  She pointed to a red button visibly marked by its purpose. Finch got the impression that Conroy didn’t think much of her new underlings. The feeling was mutual.
/>   Conroy departed, leaving behind the keycard to their office. He suspected she was eager to return to work. That suited him fine. Her presence, that calculated distaste for those around her, was nauseating.

  “That was easier than I expected,” Kasey whispered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Director Conroy might be the leading lady in her field, but she’s lousy at checking her pockets.”

  In the palm of Kasey’s hand was a bronze key that resembled the type used for a safe deposit box. The words “for use by authorized persons only” were written on the red tag.

  “You don’t think she’ll notice it missing?”

  Kasey smirked. “She’ll take the stairs. I’ll bet there’s alternative admission somewhere, perhaps a retinal or fingerprint scanner. Last I checked a biotechnology company does subsidize this place.”

  Conroy returned, streaming past their office in a vindictive huff. At her touch, an innocuous wall shifted to reveal a hidden corridor. Now that they knew where the stairs or another elevator might be, exfiltration with an unconscious director became viable.

  “She didn’t look happy,” Finch said, rather pleased with Kasey’s inspired pick-pocketing. “Let’s give her a minute to sulk before it all comes crashing down on her head.”

  The system didn’t distinguish between persons using the panel to access the Phase 4 labs. If they had the key, they were approved. Finch crowded into the elevator with Kasey and unlocked the box. He never knew an action that mundane could be exciting.

  The lift vibrated as it clambered to the seventh floor. There was no getting around the fact that cameras all over the facility had recorded their deeds. They needed to get into Conroy’s office and encourage her to cooperate before security arrived to escort them out.

  Three devoted researchers roamed the Phase 4 lab containment room. Engrossed in their schedules, none of them paid attention to Finch and Kasey. The two federal agents couldn’t blame the scientists for being preoccupied. If one of them bothered to look at the specimens in the vials and petri dishes, they might realize they should rethink their careers.

  Finch didn’t have to be a scientist to know anything categorized as “synthetic anthrax variant” was bound to be unpleasant. Likewise, threatening labels such as “lethal enterobacteriaceae subspecies” and “Ebola hybrid” made him gulp in fear. What other hellish nightmares were they culturing?

  Conroy’s office, situated beside the examination room and the automated decontamination chamber, barred entry to anyone without a specialized keycard. Through tinted Plexiglas windows, Finch and Kasey observed the head of FRC typing furiously away on her computer.

  “We could try knocking,” he suggested.

  “Right. She’ll invite us in for tea.”

  Finch had to admit that he deserved that eye-roll. There had to be some method of drawing Conroy out without raising her suspicion or ire. Then an idea straight out of high school ignited in his mind.

  “Pull the fire alarm.”

  Kasey raised an eyebrow. “Are you for real? That’s—kind of brilliant. It might work. Let’s do it.”

  The pugnacious ringing of the fire alarm drove the researchers out of containment and into the main hall. Confusion and anxiety sent them running to the elevator. Finch and Kasey avoided their hasty stampede, slinking around the corner and waiting for Director Conroy to step out of her chamber.

  Angry and irrational, she stormed from her office, stomping her heels as she went. When she reached the lift, she didn’t press the button to go down. Instead, she pressed a familiar red button on the wall. The intercom buzzed with her wrath.

  “Which of you amateurs is responsible for this nonsense? There are delicate materials in this facility! If you’re having difficulties conducting your research, report it to me. I’ll sort it out. But if you’re going to lose sight of progress like this, then you will be dismissed.”

  The tizzy Conroy devolved into while screaming at her absent coworkers was a sight to behold. Kasey slinked unbeknownst toward their target.

  “This is your last warning. Once this drill is over, I expect to see you back in Phase 4. If I find out that any of you left your work improperly disposed of, a fire will be the least of your worries.”

  Kasey grabbed Conroy before she could enter the elevator. Clasping a hand around the irritated mouth of the FRC’s director, she doubled back to Finch. While their captive fidgeted and tried to bite, he rustled through the pockets of her lab coat, removing her keycard.

  Three seconds later, Finch locked the three of them in Conroy’s office. Kasey’s grip remained steady while he hurried to shut the blinds. Once they determined that their boss was AWOL and the fire alarm a hoax, the flummoxed staff would connect the disturbance with the missing newbies from Phase 3.

  Finch accessed the computer while Kasey gagged Conroy with her own handkerchief. She tied the woman’s hands with flex cuffs and held a scalpel to her neck to prevent any sudden movements.

  “Where’s your password?” he asked.

  Systematic Conroy had to keep it somewhere close for easy viewing.

  “My partner asked you a question,” Kasey said, pushing the blade closer.

  Conroy designated the drawer on his right. Finch yanked on the handle, pulled it loose. Inside was a sticky note with the password: P3RF3CTPUR1TY.

  Inputting the code in the drop-down box, he waited for the screen to load. Folders upon folders filled the screen. He didn’t know which one to open.

  The incessant noise of the fire alarm terminated. Deciding that time was of the essence, Finch slapped a USB drive in the slot and clicked to download everything. The byte size was relatively small—mostly text files—but it would still take several minutes.

  “We need to figure out where the other exit is,” said Kasey.

  Conroy’s beady eyes glowered at her captors. The download groaned its way to completion. Finch ejected the USB and shut down the computer, glancing all around for any sign of the FRC director’s personal elevator or staircase.

  Rossiter and Conroy would’ve been a perfect match given their equal tastes in absolute sterility. All she owned was a framed doctorate from the University of Berkeley. How proud would they be if they knew what one of their star pupils was up to in her spare hours?

  Footsteps pounded in the seventh floor corridor. The guards were coming. Finch and Kasey had to get their asses in gear if they didn’t want to see the inside of an interrogation room. Again.

  Conroy’s eyes flittered to a protrusion underneath her desk. Finch looked down and saw a lever no larger than a cricket. He smiled. The director was her own worst enemy.

  He flicked the switch. The back wall slid sideways. Kasey ushered Conroy into the passage. Finch followed, hitting a second switch that obscured the hidden door behind them.

  With some aggressive persuasion, Conroy touched her hand to the sensor at the bottom of the staircase. It read her biometrics, opening an exit to the underground parking garage.

  As the federal agents carried Conroy kicking and tongue-tied to their rental car, Finch mused that for once during their investigation, nothing had gone wrong.

  CONSEQUENCES

  It was Sunday by the time they walked Conroy into headquarters. Rossiter insisted they couldn’t travel by air on the return trip. After two days in a rental car and one thousand miles, Finch and Kasey were overjoyed to be back in Washington.

  Conroy refused to speak to them the entire way, but Finch hadn’t expected her to admit to anything in transit. She still thought she could mount an escape. She was wrong.

  The public nature of Conroy’s abduction at the hands of Richard Monahan and Charlotte Reynolds disappointed Rossiter, but he understood that they had no other recourse. He applauded them for their efforts and promised that once they clinched the case, both Finch and Kasey would be due extensive furlough.

  Citing the continued need for oversight, Phil Lamarck sat in on the proceedings. He and Director Rossiter wa
tched the agents interview Conroy through a two-way mirror.

  Finch and Kasey took turns posing questions. There was a lot to ask.

  “Who are you working for?”

  Conroy said nothing. Uncooperative. Perhaps she still believed she had a way out.

  “We already know the plot, Ms. Conroy. We need you to fill in the blanks,” Kasey explained, sitting across from the prisoner.

  “What you think you know is child’s play.”

  Finally, she gave an answer. It was far from helpful.

  “Details would be nice,” said Finch, hovering over the scientist’s shoulder like a hawk.

  “You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” said Conroy.

  Kasey leaned forward, inches from her face. “You can be uncooperative all you want, Ms. Conroy. We’re not going anywhere. You’ll break. But don’t spin these little cheesy spook tales. I’m not buying it.”

  Conroy shrugged. “Lock me up if you want. You’re the ones in trouble.”

  “So you say. Tell me: who is Chuckles?”

  “Who? I don’t recognize that name.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” said Finch. “We have you on tape.”

  He played back the recording from Sinclair’s apartment.

  Her mouth twitched. “The Smiling Man is everywhere.”

  What was that supposed to mean? “This ‘Smiling Man’ is…?”

  “You better hope you don’t find out. By the time you do, you’ll be dead.”

  Kasey was in no mood for these mind games. “Death doesn’t frighten us, Ms. Conroy. You know what scares me? The thought of what must be happening to those poor people your group has been kidnapping. What are you after?”

  “Everything and nothing.”

  Were they solving the riddle of the damn Sphinx? Finch hated this double-talk.

  “Look, Ms. Conroy,” he said, “we’ve done this a dozen times. You’re an insignificant speck compared to the people we’ve beaten.”

  Indignant, she spat in his face and said, “I matter more than you ever will, agent.”