by C. J. Lyons
“I know, but I’m a cop, not one of your Russian mob friends.”
“Keep me in the loop.”
Ryder considered that. Trusting a civilian with definite organized crime connections more than his fellow law enforcement professionals? Talk about a world gone crazy. He glanced over his shoulder to where Grey was talking on his own phone—no doubt sounding just as paranoid about Ryder as Ryder sounded about him.
“Okay. But don’t do anything drastic without talking to me. Last thing we need is to piss off the FBI.”
“Right. Keep me updated.” Price hung up.
Ryder stared at the phone for a long moment before pocketing it once more. He slogged back through the muddy street—the firefighters’ foam had turned into rainbow puddles covered with a slick of ice—and rejoined Grey. “My guys have nothing on any domestic terrorist cell. So why don’t you tell me what you have? Something must have brought you up here on Christmas night. Something that couldn’t wait until morning?”
Grey was crouched, the remnants of a biohazard warning dangling from a silver ballpoint pen. He dropped the bit of yellow plastic and stood to face Ryder. “I wanted to see the scene fresh, but thanks to your fire department, I doubt there’s anything of interest left behind. Still, our guys will double-check, just to be certain.”
Ryder waited, saying nothing, giving the Fed space. Grey pivoted, staring out over the river. Finally, he nodded to the mountain across the water. “Ever hear of the Sons of Adam?”
“Fringe militia cult. Tried to blow up a hospital in Pittsburgh a few years ago.”
“Right. They’re back. Under new leadership. More radical than ever. Basically, if you’re not a white, Christian male, you’re fair game.”
“You think they’re behind all this?”
“Their new leader calls himself Brother Tyrone. Real name unknown—that’s how good he is at covering his tracks. I’ve been trailing him across the Midwest and up through Appalachia. He’s a charismatic SOB, sets up shop in a blue-collar town, offers his followers thrills along with his own special form of social activism. Snake handling, fire walking... Hell, he’s led sermons from deep down in abandoned coal mines to the middle of a lake during a thunderstorm with tornados and water spouts racing past.”
“Must make quite an impression. What’s he preach? This activism of his?” Could this Brother Tyrone be connected to Lazaretto and Almanac Care? If so, maybe there were more people infected with fatal insomnia. Ryder was half-tempted to reciprocate and share his own intel with Grey but decided it was better to play it safe. At least for now.
“He calls it purifying, but it translates to vigilantism. Gets poor folks frustrated with the way things are in their communities all riled up and tells them they can stand up for what’s right, make a change, even if the police and government can’t. By the time he’s done with them, they’ve torn down crack houses, rousted the homeless out of town, burned out sex offender encampments, even firebombed a mosque. Whatever needs purifying—in their eyes—he empowers them to purify.”
“Including murder?”
Grey shook his head. “Not until now. Which is why I’m here. Because I have the feeling that this,” he gestured to the debris surrounding them, “is just the beginning.”
Chapter 9
EVERY OTHER TIME I’d touched someone’s mind, I’d been consumed by darkness. More than black, less than emptiness. A void, infinite and ravenous.
Not this time. Daniel’s mind was gray fog, swirling thick, so thick it was difficult to tell which side was up. This fog wasn’t like the kind that moved in from the river, swamping the city in its moist tendrils, easily swept aside. This fog was alive, a million spider webs tangled and interwoven, grasping for prey.
It took all my strength to shuffle through it. Unseen fingers grabbed at my ankles, trying to pull me down. Finally, I resorted to parting the thick mist with my arms, swimming past its greedy wisps.
A man’s laughter came from behind me. The sound dispersed the fog with the sudden ferocity of a thunderclap, leaving me standing in bright sunshine, arms waving through clear air.
Daniel lounged in a wicker chaise alongside a large oval swimming pool with a waterfall at one end. He sipped some tropical-looking concoction and waved me over with his drinking hand. “That was easier than I thought it would be.”
I shook away his offer of a drink but did sit in the chair that appeared beside him. “I’m Angela—”
“I know who you are, Dr. Rossi. I’ve been expecting you.”
“You have?”
“Aren’t you doctors always telling families that patients in comas can hear everything?”
“Right. Of course.” The chair was low and deep, and I kept sinking farther into it. I shoved my weight forward to perch on the edge. “Then you know why I’m here?”
“Yes.” A twinkle entered his eye. He was having fun, making me work for what I needed. “But don’t let that stop you from asking.”
“Why?” I asked, already infuriated with his games. True, he was dying, and I was hastening things with my visit, but if he’d heard everything, then he knew children’s lives were at risk—including Devon’s child, Daniel’s own granddaughter.
“Because I’m bored and lonely.” He pouted. “Do a dying man a favor and allow him to enjoy one last conversation.”
“Okay, then. Who did Leo create the PXA for? What do they want? How do we stop them?” Once the questions began, it was difficult to stop them from all flooding out, but I managed to hold back after those three. They were the most important, anyway.
Daniel’s expression was one of smug amusement. Again, I had the awful feeling of being trapped in a spider’s web, as if that gruesome fog still clung to my skin.
“Leo did not create PXA.” He took another sip of his orange-red drink. The colors swirled but never mixed, a sunset trapped in a glass.
“No? He only developed it into the ultimate torture and interrogation drug.” My voice rose, becoming sharp. I let it. “You knew there was a reversal agent, didn’t you? Those women who died after Leo overdosed them on PXA—you could have saved them.”
“To what end? To testify that my son was a sadistic killer?” He waved a hand as if the murders of over a dozen women were of no consequence.
“Give me the formula for the reversal agent.” We had a sample, but it would take time to synthesize the formula, so I thought the request was a good test of his intentions.
He considered that. “And what will you give me in return?”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing except your company.” Suddenly, we were in a lush, well-manicured garden somewhere in the countryside. The green stretched as far as I could see in one direction, in the other was a thick forest, and behind us a mansion even larger than Daniel’s brownstone. It was like something out of a movie. “Come. Walk with me.”
He led me into the garden, the sweet perfume of flowers in bloom wafting in the gentle breeze.
“The PXA reversal?” I reminded him.
He nodded, and a chemical formula appeared in my mind, inked on a piece of parchment that flitted to the ground before me. I stooped, grabbed it, committed it to memory, then folded it into a square and pocketed it.
“Thank you.”
“How could I resist? You look so much like her.”
I frowned. He was confused—I should have expected as much, given the severity of his stroke. “Everyone says I look like my father.”
His smile was indulgent. “I never met your father.” We continued down the path. “No, you remind me of an old friend. When I was young, so much younger.”
I looked down, and my clothing had changed to riding pants and a silk blouse. I’d never been on a horse, so this must be a wisp of Daniel’s memory about his childhood friend. “Tell me about the people who created the PXA. Did you know they also found a way to create an artificial form of fatal insomnia? What do they want? How did they do that?”
How do we st
op them? was what I really wanted to ask. But I knew better than to push him. I was more certain than ever that Daniel’s company was involved—if not Daniel himself.
“Fatal insomnia? Never heard of it.”
I didn’t believe him. “But you know who’s behind the PXA?”
“It’s not a new drug. Goes back centuries. My company—well, one of our divisions—was hired to create a synthetic form that could easily be produced in mass quantities. Until now, they never needed large amounts, distilled it by hand.”
“They? Who’s they?”
We reached the end of the gardens. Beyond the eight-foot-tall boxwood hedge, two young boys waited with horses. Big, black horses, their coats brushed sleek, fine leather saddles molded to their backs.
“Ride with me, and I’ll show you.” Daniel suddenly appeared younger, in his thirties. He climbed onto his horse with the grace and ease of experience.
I stared up at my mount with terror. I’d never even been this close to a horse before. Knew nothing of how to get up there onto the saddle, or what to do once I did. The groom knelt and cupped his hands, waiting for me.
“Do you want answers or not?” Daniel asked.
I gathered my breath and stepped onto the boy’s hands. He handled my weight effortlessly, lifting me up into the saddle. It was so high up, higher than I’d imagined. He backed away to adjust the stirrups. The other boy handed me the reins. The horse sniffed and tossed its head as I gripped the reins tight.
“Relax. The horse knows what to do. Give it its head.” With that, Daniel galloped into the woods, disappearing from sight.
My horse bolted after him with me clinging to its back with everything I had.
Chapter 10
AFTER DEVON HUNG up with Ryder, he continued pacing his father’s bedroom, a nervous energy making him feel as if he were caged. He should be out there, doing something, not sitting around here where he was...helpless.
He glanced at Angela, her face vacant as if she was simply gone. He hated this part of things, hated watching her when she was inside someone else. It was creepy, like what she’d look like when she really was dead.
Louise, however, was fascinated, dancing from monitor to monitor, making certain the video captured every minute. “Look at these theta spikes,” she exclaimed in excitement. “See how they’re synchronizing? Amazing.”
Devon couldn’t take it anymore. He strode to the door. “Flynn, you stand guard. No one comes in unless it’s me or Ryder.”
“What about Esme?” It was clear that if she had to watch over anyone, she’d prefer it to be Esme.
“I’m going to check on her and take care of some loose ends. Call me if anything happens.”
Flynn nodded her understanding, and Devon left, a feeling of relief washing over him as soon as the door shut on the view of Angela and his father.
He trusted Angela; she’d do everything she could to save Esme. But Daniel? The man was the devil incarnate. He hated that their only plan depended on him.
Unless he could devise a plan B. He slipped through the tunnels quickly, skirting their familiar shadows until he arrived at the makeshift dormitory where the children and their families had cots set up. Ozzie looked up from Esme’s cot, where he covered her small body like a blanket, thumped his tail, and blinked at Devon as if to say, “What took you so long?”
“Sorry, bud,” Devon said, soothing Esme’s hair and grimacing at the fever that burned through her. He couldn’t deny himself a moment to lean down and plant a kiss on her forehead.
This was what he’d worked so hard to avoid his entire life. Ten years ago, when he left Esme and her mother to protect them from the gang who’d targeted him, he thought that was the hard part, the painful part that about tore his heart in half. It’d hurt, more than getting gunned down would have, but that’s what a man did: he stood for what was his and protected them with everything he had.
But now that Jess was gone and Esme was back in his life...he raised his eyes heavenward, appreciating the cosmic irony. The man who’d built a life on having no ties, no soft spots enemies could exploit, now lived his life for the greatest vulnerability of all.
A tiny noise interrupted his reverie. A woman politely clearing her throat. Veronica Lee, the mother of the first patient Angela had diagnosed with the artificial fatal insomnia, Randolph Lee. “Mr. Price?”
“How’s Randolph?” Devon asked the mother, following her gaze to where an older man and woman sat on a cot with their backs to the concrete wall and a small boy stretched out across their laps.
“Same as the others. We’ll be lucky if they sleep more than an hour at a time.” Veronica was in her mid-twenties, pretty despite the anguish that creased her face—if she’d smiled, she’d be beautiful. She turned her back on the sight of her son and parents to face Devon. “Who did this, Mr. Price? Why would they want to hurt our children? We have no money, we pose no threat. I cannot understand how any human can be so heartless.”
Who says they’re human, Devon thought. He didn’t believe in spooks or supernatural creatures; his time spent with the Russians had shown him that he didn’t need to. There were way too many men—and a few women—willing to sacrifice their humanity in the name of glory, power, vengeance, or even a quick fix.
“You will find them.” Veronica made it a statement, not a question. She squeezed Devon’s arm, her rhinestone-studded nails glittering in the dim light. “I know that. But,” her hand fell away from his body, “I feel so helpless. We all do. How can we help? Please.”
Devon glanced around the large space, realized that the eyes of most of the parents and grandparents were on him. They needed more than guidance, they needed a mission. Something to focus on besides their dying children.
“I need all my resources to find the men behind this.” He raised his voice slightly so it would carry past Veronica. Resources? Who was he kidding? His resources included a middle-aged neurologist, a dying ER doctor, a teenage sociopath, a renegade cop, and a Labrador retriever. Still, the parents nodded, anxious to believe.
God help him, Devon fed that belief. He stood. “I need you to organize and prepare for a possible siege. We’ve plenty of food, but I need a list of other supplies that we’ll need: clothing, that kind of thing.”
He trailed off uncertainly—he had no idea what kids this age needed. He’d never been a parent before. But Veronica nodded. “Toys and books, maybe some music? We should organize cleaning, cooking, chores like that, as well.”
“Exactly. Just remember, we only have this section of rooms secured. Don’t try to go past the orange doors.” They were locked, and only he, Flynn, and Angela had keys.
“Yes, of course.” Then she frowned, lowered her voice as she leaned closer. “We are safe here, aren’t we? They won’t come after us, not down here. We won’t need to fight.”
He hoped not. Sent a prayer to any deity on duty to prevent that. “No,” he said, injecting as much confidence as possible into his voice. “Don’t you worry about that. That’s my job.”
Her nod was so forceful it almost turned into a bow. “Thank you, Mr. Price.” And she left to return to the other parents.
Devon called Ozzie to him. The Lab lumbered off the bed, moving slowly and not disturbing Esme.
“It’s going to be okay,” Devon promised Esme. Because that’s what a man did; he changed the world, fought the monsters, went to hell and back, if that’s what it took to protect his own.
He and Ozzie left the dormitory. He wasn’t sure why the lights in the hallway made his eyes water—they were the red ones to help you see in the dark, weren’t bright at all. But still the tunnel around him blurred, and he had to rely on the dog to keep him upright until he blinked his vision clear again.
Did nothing for the barbwire garroting his heart, but he knew the only cure for that would be to see Esme safe and healthy.
“This way,” he told the dog who followed at Devon’s knee. Ozzie was trained as a Seeing Eye dog but had also
proven useful as a tracker. “You’re not going to like it. There’s a lot of blood.”
They arrived at their destination: the small dental clinic where Dr. Tommaso Lazaretto had taken his own life rather than risk Angela touching his memories.
Flynn had disposed of the body in the Good Sam incinerator, but first she’d stripped Tommaso, in case his clothing offered any leads. Other than the label of a good tailor in Milan, it hadn’t; the only useful items were Tommaso’s hospital ID and a cell phone. The phone was encrypted, but Devon had couriered it to one of his old Russian mob contacts; it would take time to crack, though.
Time Devon didn’t have. He needed to track Tommaso’s movements. He already knew the doctor and his cohorts had been living in the warehouse lab that exploded, so that was out. But between Ozzie’s nose and the hospital ID, he hoped to expand his knowledge of where else the not-so-good doctor had been and any other accomplices he might have encountered.
He didn’t want to overwhelm Ozzie with the blood that still stenched the room, so he left the dog in the hallway and went inside to collect the doctor’s clothing. Each of the tunnel’s sections were designed like compartments on a submarine, with steel doors that were airtight and locked.
The underground shelter was large enough to house several hundred people and had been built during the Cold War as an evacuation point for the state government in case of nuclear disaster. Daniel had upgraded many of its functions, adding state-of-the-art air filtration and water reclamation, geothermal energy, modern medical supplies, food, and enough weapons and ammo to invade a third world country. More evidence that he’d known something bad was coming. Devon couldn’t help but wonder who exactly Daniel would have invited to join him in his nuclear wonderland underground city.
Not Devon, that was certain.
Inside the dentistry clinic, he steered clear of the ribbons and puddles of congealing blood centered around the exam chair. Awful way to go, biting your own tongue off and drowning in your own blood. But no less awful than the fate Tommaso had planned for Angela and the children he’d infected with fatal insomnia. Devon’s only regret was that the man had taken the coward’s way out, killing himself before they could get the information they needed from him.
