by C. J. Lyons
“All right, as soon as I’m done monitoring Angela. It’s really quite fascinating—more than the theta spindles, the brain activity in the speech and auditory areas of the brain are synchronizing as if they’re having an actual conversation. And your father’s stroke destroyed most of that area, so—”
“Wait. Angela is still with Daniel?” He glanced at the time; it’d been over two hours.
“Yes. Why? Is that unusual?” She spoke as if he was some kind of expert. Guess since he was the only person who’d watched Angela enter a mind, he was.
“I’m not sure. When I saw her do it, it only lasted a few minutes. But the person she was inside was—”
“Dying. If their brain function deteriorated while they were communicating with Angela, perhaps that broke the bond. Which means she’s wrong and it wasn’t her reaching out to them that killed them.”
“And so Daniel might not die after she leaves him?” Damn, he was rather looking forward to the old devil finally getting his due.
“Perhaps not. At any rate, both of their vitals are stable, no signs of any distress from either of them.”
“Still. If it lasts much longer. or if you see any change at all, you might want to pull her out.”
“What if that does more harm?”
He remembered when Angela entered his mother’s mind. Her brain had been too damaged for even Angela to reach, and it had been difficult to wake Angela back up—but she’d also shown “distress,” as Louise put it, enough so that even a layperson like Devon had known she was in trouble.
“No. She’ll be fine,” he reassured Louise, inserting a measure of confidence in his voice to hide the fact that he was half-ass guessing.
Speaking of freaky events... “Is there any chance Tommaso was working with Leo?”
“Leo Kingston? Your half-brother?”
“My half-brother, the sadistic serial killer, yeah.”
“Whyever would you—”
“Because the police never found most of his victims. Before he died, Angela pulled their identities from his memories, and I’ve been using the Kingston money to help the families. Angela told me Leo burned their bodies in the hospital incinerator, so we had no hope of ever finding any proof.”
“Devon. What did you find?”
“Their heads. Decapitated. Stored inside a special locked room at Good Sam’s that Tommaso kept hidden. Each one had their brains dissected, all sealed up in little plastic-wrap pouches. All with holes like Angela’s brain scan—but a lot more and bigger.”
Her inhalation was sharp enough to echo over the phone. “Don’t touch anything. Can you send me photos? But without—”
“Touching. Yeah, I got it.” He’d already taken photos of the faces to compare with the ones on the missing-persons fliers. Now he shot more of the slices of brain in the open container. “Sending them to you now. Each head has a container filled like this one. These are just from one of the tubs.”
“Yes, I see. Definite spongiform encephalopathy. And from the concentration in the thalamic area, probably the same disease Angela is suffering from.”
Devon stepped farther back, away from the room. “So, prions? He has brains infected with prions just sitting around? Why didn’t he keep them in the Almanac lab with all those special biohazard pods?”
“You mean the portable Level Three labs? That certainly would have been the proper procedure, at the very least. Technically, prions require Level Four containment protocols.”
“What do we do? I can’t just let these sit around for some clueless janitor to stumble on.”
“Don’t try to move them yourself. From the photos, it appears that Tommaso at least took some precautions. Still, it begs the question—”
“What the hell was he hiding from his own guys at Almanac?”
“Exactly. Otherwise, he would have been working in their lab with proper equipment.”
“Wait. Maybe he was using proper equipment. Just not here at Good Sam’s and not in the Almanac lab. Leo had several labs of his own set up in the tunnels. Where he perfected his PXA.”
“And probably synthesized the reversal agent for Almanac Care.”
“Exactly. Plus, Leo had access to any medical equipment he wanted. I’ll bet somewhere down in those tunnels there’s a Level Three biohazard lab set up, and that’s where Tommaso was working.”
“Until you and Angela discovered Leo and you took over the tunnels, cleared them out. Forcing Tommaso to move.” She paused. “If that’s the case, and he was hiding this second avenue of research from his partners at Almanac, then he would have kept a record of his findings. Probably video recordings as well as written notes.”
“Separate from the laptop he used here for his legitimate research, I hope. Because there wasn’t any in his lab near your office.”
“Don’t you think a phone would be more likely? One used only for this project? He couldn’t risk his partners in crime learning he was pursuing another agenda separate from theirs.”
“Maybe the same agenda.” Hell of a euphemism for infecting almost two dozen children with a lethal disease. “Only, Tommaso wanted to get there first.” Why the hell would they be competing to be the first to perfect an artificially transmitted prion disease?
“It would help if we had an idea what their objective was.”
“Is it safe for me to search the room if I don’t disturb any of the brain tissue?” He wasn’t actually asking for permission—he was going to find Tommaso’s research notes and didn’t care if in the process he exposed himself to the prions that were already killing Esme.
If he lost her, he lost everything.
Chapter 18
TYRONE’S MEN RESTRAINED Ryder and Grey, handcuffing their hands behind their backs. The cuffs appeared regulation, which gave Ryder hope. Ever since last month, when he’d been held by a serial killer, he’d resumed using an old patrol officer’s trick of secreting an emergency handcuff key inside his rear belt loop. All he needed now was a little time and privacy.
They crowded into the Tahoe’s rear seat, Tyrone in the front and one of his men driving, while another guarded Ryder and Grey.
“Who’s your friend, Agent Grey?” Tyrone asked once they were under way. He twisted in his seat, holding Ryder’s identification up and squinting as if doubting what he saw. “Detective Matthew Ryder. I know you. You got shot by that serial killer last month.”
Leo Kingston. The twisted genius who’d created the perfect chemical to torture his victims with. Ryder blinked, kept his expression neutral as pieces snapped together in his brain. Leo was hired to work on the PXA drug compound...and one of the uses of PXA was to temper the effects of fatal insomnia. Couldn’t be a coincidence.
Which meant these men knew Leo. Probably blamed Ryder for his death. Maybe Lazaretto and the others in the lab had been completing Leo’s work? Only one way to find out. He just hoped that he lived long enough to pass on any intel he might gain. “I know about the PXA and Leo Kingston.”
Grey jerked from where he sat on the other side of Ryder. Stared at him with a “What the hell are you thinking?” glare. But if Tyrone was working with Leo, then Ryder wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. The potential to gain useful information far outweighed any risks.
Tyrone merely chuckled. “Oh, you do, do you?”
“He was working for you. Was he also involved in the fatal insomnia distribution mechanism? Research genius like that, must have set you back when he died.”
“Maybe,” Tyrone conceded. “But not for long.”
Tyrone’s driver followed the twisting lane as it switchbacked through the forest, taking a virtually invisible turn onto an even more rutted and narrow trail. A lonely beam of light from above them teased through the thick trees as they headed up the mountain.
“I’ll give you this,” Ryder continued, trying to maneuver Tyrone into divulging something useful. “You guys definitely know how to play the long game. You infected those kids when? June? July? What was i
t like, sitting and waiting for their symptoms to appear, not knowing if it worked or not?”
“Easier than you think. We had other business to occupy us.”
“Pretty genius. A disease that works so slowly, you’re long gone before anyone even thinks to consider a terrorist attack. Not to mention there’s no known cure.” He paused, wishing he could see Tyrone’s face more clearly in the dim light. There was a spark of something there. He hoped. “At least not known publicly. But you have a cure, don’t you? You must. You’d never risk releasing prions without one. Did Leo come up with it? Or are you working with someone else? Like Tommaso Lazaretto?”
Tyrone’s mouth quirked, and Ryder was sure he was about to respond, but the SUV slipped and fishtailed. It was enough to divert his attention from Ryder to the driver. “Slow down, there’s no rush,” he snapped.
The driver nodded and obeyed. The trees thinned, and a clearing with several trucks and SUVs parked in it appeared. The lone light came from a lantern beyond them. The guard jumped out then hauled Ryder from the rear seat. While they waited for the others, Ryder had a chance to get his bearings. The mountain jutted up directly in front of him, a stone face broken by a squared-off opening bordered by heavy timbers and guarded by a chain-link fence. In the light of the lantern, he made out a sign above the entrance: NO. 7 CAMBRIA COAL.
A burning chill twisted through Ryder’s gut. It wasn’t panic. He was too disciplined to allow emotions to override his mission. More like dread. How many times in the early days of the war had he led his men into dark pits as they scoured the caves of Paktika for Bin Laden? Every single time, he’d been certain it would be his last.
He’d left part of his soul behind in those dark crevices that devoured all light and life. Had barely dragged himself and his squad home again.
Other men had nightmares filled with blood and bombs, shrapnel, limbs flying, innocents and friends alike shredded...not Ryder, although he’d seen his fair share. No, it wasn’t the blood that haunted Ryder, even all these years later. It was the black, where the greatest enemy you faced was the fear you’d carried in with you.
His captor yanked him forward toward the dark, gaping mouth of the mine.
Into the black once again, he thought, the words accompanied by the trees sighing in the wind. He’d barely escaped the first time.
This time, would it finally kill him?
<<<>>>
I OPENED MY eyes to bright sunlight streaming through a set of tall windows. Definitely not my apartment. I blinked, surprised I didn’t have the scratchy dry eyes I usually had after a fugue. None of the cottonmouth or body aches either. In fact, I felt amazingly refreshed.
Then I realized. I was still in Daniel’s room, on his bed. Had I been there all night? I turned my head. I was alone on the bed. Where had he gone? Maybe my brain was more blurry than I realized.
“Morning, doc.” Flynn appeared at my side, dressed head to toe in black as always. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. Good. What happened to Daniel?”
She frowned at my question. “Daniel?”
“Where is he?”
“He’s in his room. Where else would he be?”
As I blinked, the light shifted and I realized the wallpaper wasn’t the muted blue of Daniel’s room, but rather a pale peach. And the bed that a moment ago had looked exactly like Daniel’s was now a simple cherry—instead of heavy, dark oak—with elegant lines and Queen Anne-style curves.
“I could have sworn...”
“You gave us a scare, sleeping so long,” Flynn continued, sounding happier than I’d ever heard her. “Dr. Louise said it was a good thing, though.”
Why wasn’t she interrogating me for answers? Demanding any information that might help Esme or the other children? Unless... “Esme? The children?”
“Fine. They’re all fine.” A strange look crossed over her face. “Why are you asking?”
“I’m not sure—I can’t remember,” I stammered. “Daniel was about to give me...” My mind stuttered. The answers were right there, but I couldn’t quite grasp them.
“You really don’t remember?”
I tried to sit up but could barely support my weight on my hands to push myself upright. That’s when I realized I couldn’t feel my legs. Panic surged through me like an electrical shock.
Flynn reached around my torso and shifted my position with practiced movements. Then she pressed a button to raise the head of the bed. It wasn’t a regular bed. It was a hospital bed with a special mattress designed to prevent stasis ulcers.
I fought to keep my terror from my voice. “What happened?”
“I’m going to call Dr. Louise.” She turned to leave, but I grabbed her.
Or rather, I tried to grab her, wanted to grab her arm. Instead, my hand flapped across the space separating us, fingers clumsily closing around her wrist but without enough strength to actually hold her in place.
“No. Tell me.”
“After you visited Daniel, while you were inside him, your blood pressure shot up—from the PXA, Dr. Louise said. You had a stroke. When you woke up, you were fine except you were paralyzed.”
“That was last night?”
She shook her head, glancing at the windows. For the first time, I noticed they were open. The trees beyond were green, the air scented with lilacs. “No. That was four months ago.”
“Then why can’t I remember?” Had I had another stroke while I slept? “Did I have trouble with my memory after the stroke?”
“No. Angie—” Her eyes went wide. “You did it. You brought back the cure. The kids are saved because of you.”
I frowned so hard it strained my muscles. “No. Daniel never—” I shook my head in frustration. “I don’t remember him giving me the cure. I don’t remember leaving him, waking up.” My voice rose, pitched up like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “I don’t remember any of it.”
She patted my arm. So unlike Flynn who was always ready with a weapon but never with reassurance or comfort. “I’ll get Dr. Louise. She’ll sort all this out for you.”
I watched her leave, wondering where Devon and Ryder were. At work, I assumed. And if Esme was cured, she’d be back at school.
I focused on my feet, straining to move them, to get the slightest twitch. Nothing. That’s when I noticed the wheelchair waiting beside the bed. It looked brand new, as if it’d never been used—not even a butt crease in the cushion. Had I been trapped here in a bed for four months?
My energy spent, I flopped back against the pillows and closed my eyes against the sunshine. What else had I lost while I slept? I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. If it really was April, I should have been long dead, killed by my fatal insomnia.
Yet, here I was...but I had no idea what sort of life I’d woken to.
Chapter 19
TYRONE’S MEN HAULED open the metal gate guarding the entrance to the mine and escorted Ryder and Grey inside. Ryder scoured the area for weapons, cover, alternative exits. Anything to give them an advantage when they made their move.
The entrance was a wide cavern carved from the rock. Several more lanterns were arranged on makeshift sawhorse tables, illuminating the space in wide swaths of shadow and light. Pebbles of shale and coal crunched underfoot, echoing off the ragged rock face that made up the walls and ceiling. Water dripped and dribbled along the front wall in rusty-gray streaks, leaving puddles in its wake. The smell was a strange mixture of fresh water, moldy wood, and rusted metal, making Ryder’s nose wrinkle.
The right-hand side of the antechamber was filled with the remnants of a structure built into the cavern wall and partially caved in by a rock fall. He made out a timber doorway, twisted beneath the weight of the collapse. On the opposite side of the cavern stood a similar, fairly intact structure—he wasn’t sure if it qualified as a room or a building, since half its walls were the native rock, but it also had a roof and windows—with a sign over the door in faded stencil letters, reading: HOSPITAL. The
rear section of the chamber was cloaked in darkness, but he made out the faint gleam of metal scaffolding extending overhead.
“Tyrone, Tyrone,” Grey said in a disapproving tone, ignoring his guard to saunter over to the nearest table, peering down at the papers scattered over it. “Up until now you’ve been so careful. But killing a federal agent and a police detective? Reckless.”
“Who said anything about killing anyone?” Tyrone answered. He moved to roll up the set of building plans and nodded to the guard to escort Grey away from the table.
Ryder stayed where he was, motionless, hoping his guard would ignore him and pay attention to the conversation between the others, give him time to formulate a plan. So far, what he saw wasn’t giving him many ideas short of a suicide mission. Too soon to think that way.
Grey turned to face Tyrone. “Don’t play coy with me. I know you too well.”
“Then you know we do not kill randomly. That’s not what we’re about.”
“What do you want with us?”
“Information. And time, that’s all.”
“If it’s answers you’re looking for, the first one I’ll give you for free. Ask me how many men are closing in on you right now.” Grey’s chest puffed out with bravado. “Go ahead. Between the federal, county, and state SWAT teams, I think we were up to forty operators, weren’t we, Detective?”
Ryder played along and nodded, plastering a smug smile on his face. “Forty-two, to be exact. Seven six-man teams. Not counting support units, of course.”
“Right.” Grey shrugged his shoulders, ignoring the restraints securing his hands behind his back. “So now’s your chance. Surrender, cooperate. You have my personal guarantee that you’ll get the best deal possible.”
For a moment, Ryder actually thought Grey’s bluff had worked. He had no idea how large Grey’s team was, but sooner or later they’d track them here. Just a matter of buying time.
Tyrone glanced at each of his men in turn. Then he smiled. It was the kind of smile seldom glimpsed on a person. It reminded Ryder of the stained glass at St. Tim’s, portraits of a benevolent martyr beaming down at the men preparing to kill him. A smile not shadowed by fear, but rather, illuminated by private, secret knowledge and unshaken faith.
