Kit almost lost his cool with the guy. The pilot was an asshole of the first order. Actually, he’d flown in plenty of helicopters before, flown in snow-blind blizzards, bad rainstorms, and on dangerous raids. There had never been a problem until August of ’94.
He’d been a good agent until then, one of the best. Resourceful, bright, hardworking, tough enough. It was a matter of record in his personnel file. So what the hell had happened to him?
“The natural color of my gills is green. I’m just fine. I’m all right.” He tried a little self-deprecating humor.
“Whatever you say, Kermit. It’s your dime.”
Yes, it sure was his dime, and he didn’t have a lot of them to blow on costly surveillance junkets like this. But he felt he needed an overview; he had to see the big picture; take in the lay of the land. And the real big picture here had to do with subjects as lofty and important as the survival of the human race. He believed that, or he wouldn’t be out here on his own.
Kit tried looking down at the treetops again. Acres of ponderosa pines with aspen groves nestled in. Occasional “blowouts”—stacks of trees blown down in winter. And, of course, the snowy peaks of the Continental Divide.
There was a lab out here somewhere near the Divide. Kit knew that much. Where the hell could it be?
The helicopter passed over Gross Reservoir. Then he could see the Eldora ski area, and the small town of Nederland. Then another picturesque reservoir—probably Barker, if he was reading the maps correctly. Off in the distance, he spotted Flagstaff Mountain. Closer in was Magnolia Road, Sunshine Canyon.
He knew what he was looking for… the end of civilization as we know it. A brave new world. That’s all. It was out here somewhere.
He thought about Dr. Frank McDonough again. Dr. Mc-Donough had been on his list. McDonough, and also David Mekin and his wife. He had wanted to meet with Dr. McDonough—a pediatrician with a background in embryology.
Unfortunately, he’d been a day late getting here. Blame his boss, Peter Stricker, for that. Hell no, blame himself.
Dr. McDonough was victim number four. Four doctors had been murdered that he knew of. Four doctors with suspicious pasts, dubious presents, and now, no futures at all.
He watched a couple of paragliders off in the distance. They almost seemed to be flying. They looked so free.
“Okay, let’s go down,” he finally said to the rent-a-chopper pilot. He had his overview, anyway; he had the lay of the land. It was the right first step for the investigation.
The pilot grinned and gave Kit a thumbs-down signal. What a jerk. “Hang on to your insides… Kermit.”
F-you, Sky King, Kit thought. He didn’t say anything, didn’t want to start a scene up here. Especially not up here.
The helicopter swooped and went into a steep dive. He knew it was a physical impossibility, but his stomach seemed to drop before the rest of the chopper and its contents.
He was feeling unsatisfied and uptight as he left the tiny “High Pines” Airport at around ten-thirty in the morning. He needed help, but knew he couldn’t ask for it from the Bureau. He was on his own, and that really sucked.
Chapter 17
HAVE FAITH AND pursue the unknown end. Oliver Wendell Holmes said it and Kit had always believed it. He still did, so here he was in the Rocky Mountains. Pursuing the unknown end, and trying like hell to keep the faith.
He needed answers, or maybe he just wanted to hear a familiar voice. He called Peter Stricker’s office in Washington. This was going to be tricky, but he thought he could pull it off. He might just be able to get a little help from the Bureau.
Peter Stricker was in charge of the Northeast sector of the FBI. They were still pretty good friends. Up until two and a half years ago, Peter had actually worked for him.
Then Kit’s world turned upside down, and he wound up working for Peter. And last week, Peter had threatened to can him if he didn’t make his job priorities the same as the ones the Bureau had for him. And Peter had put the warning on paper.
Even before the official threat there had been signs. He’d been passed over for promotion after the accident in ’94—though God only knows if that was the reason. More likely, it was his stubbornness and insubordination that had stalled out his career in the FBI. Also, his obsessiveness with cases that fascinated or scared the living shit out of him. Like this case that had brought him out to Colorado. He could see potential leads, looming problems, possible solutions where others didn’t.
He had always been an “unusual” FBI agent. Hell, that was why they said they had recruited him out of NYU Law. During his interviews he’d been told that the Bureau wanted him because they were too straitlaced and traditional, and therefore too predictable. He was supposed to represent a new, evolved kind of agent. And he sure had! For a while, anyway.
They had sold hard on the idea of breaking out of the envelope, working outside the box; but once he was inside the organization, he discovered that the FBI really didn’t want to change very much. Actually, the Bureau had tried to change him. And when he wouldn’t budge, they resented the hell out of it. One of his superiors said, “We didn’t join you, Tom. You joined us. So why don’t you cut the prima donna horseshit and get with the program like the rest of us?”
Because he was different. He was supposed to be different. That was the deal—and a deal was a deal.
Except that the Bureau wasn’t keeping their end.
They resented the corduroy sports jackets, unlogoed ball caps, the jeans, the dock shoes he insisted on wearing to work, and not just on Fridays. And that he read “serious” novels like Underworld and Mason & Dixon and anything Toni Morrison wrote. And that some days he rode his Cannondale racing bike to and from the office in Boston.
They were bugged by his longish hair and his every-other-day shaving habits and his slight swagger, which didn’t represent cockiness, just the fact that he liked to walk around with music playing in his head.
Most of all, though, the Bureau was incensed by his casual approach to discipline. Right from the start, he was called a loose cannon.
Worse, he probably was a loose cannon. He’d been one as a gritty middleweight in the Boston Golden Gloves, and as an outspoken, and pretty unconventional undergraduate at Holy Cross, and even at NYU Law. Hell, he was a bus driver’s son, one of five sons. He had no business being at NYU Law, or maybe even at Cross. Why shouldn’t he speak his mind?
He’d gotten away with it in school, but not at the Federal Bureau. No loose cannons were permitted in the FBI. Not even ones who had solved at least two “unsolvable” murder cases during the past five years.
Awhh, stop the horseshit, he finally told himself. He was in trouble because he’d been pursuing the “human experiments” case for the past year and a half. Against orders. He had repeatedly disobeyed orders that went high up the chain of command. He was still disobeying orders, and much worse than that.
“This is Tom Brennan for Agent Stricker,” he said when Stricker’s overly pleasant, overly efficient assistant came on the line. “How are you, Cindy? Is Peter there for me?”
“Oh, it’s so nice to hear from you, Tom. One moment please.” Cindy was overly polite as ever. “I have to check and see if he’s at his desk. Be right back to you.”
Surprisingly, Stricker picked up immediately. He spoke in a whisper—always. Made you pay attention. The trademark Stricker sibilance.
“Tom Terrific. How is paradise? How is Nantucket? You’re supposed to be sailing, riding the surf. Hanging out at the beach. Get the hell off the telephone.”
“I’m calling from the beach,” Kit manufactured a high-spirited, buddy-to-buddy laugh. “Actually, I’m being pretty good for me. I’m on my way to becoming a world-class beach bum up here. There’s just one little thing.”
“There always is, Tom. Always just one thing, always a hitch in your swing. You’re supposed to be getting used to not worrying about the little things,” Stricker told him in the usual soft tones.
“Wasn’t that our deal?”
“I know, I know. It was. And I appreciate the few weeks up here. It’s just that—I was on the Web this morning. I happened to see that a Dr. Frank McDonough was drowned in Colorado yesterday. It really weirded me out. Did you see it, Peter?”
Stricker couldn’t mask his annoyance for a second longer. His whisper rose a notch. “Tom, please let this phantom case go. Stay off the Web for a while. Christ, man. It’s already started to wreck a pretty terrific career.”
“Not really. But anyway, there was a Dr. McDonough in the original Berkeley think-tank group. I’m sure about that. Would you mind having somebody follow through with it? Maybe Michael Fescoe? Or Manny Patino? Just for my peace of mind? Check and see if it’s the same Frank McDonough.”
He could tell that Stricker wasn’t at all happy with the way the call was going. “Okay, Tom. I can do that for you. I’ll check up on the deceased. It’s Dr. Frank McDonough, right? You work on the personal demons. Work on your tan. Find some nice Nantucket chick to hang out with. Make love, not war.”
“If he’s the same McDonough, he’s number four, Peter. Doctors Kim, Heekin, Mekin, McDonough.”
“Right, I know all the particulars of the case, Tom. I know you think there’s a missing link, even though the folks in Quantico don’t see it that way. I’ll take it from here. You take care of the sun and sea.”
“Thanks for the help, Peter. You’re the best. I’ll check in about McDonough, though. Maybe tomorrow?”
He could hear Stricker’s sigh. If it was possible, his voice got even lower. “Give me your number on the island. I’ll call you there.”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll check in. It’s really no problem. I’ll call you tomorrow. Well, the sun and sea beckon. I even met somebody who I kind of like. I like her looks, anyway. Thanks again for the help, Peter.”
He had to strain to hear Stricker’s response.
“No problem. Try to relax, though. Promise me, Tom. This isn’t something you have to worry about anymore. No loose cannon shit. That was our deal. I’ll get the info you need on Dr. McDonough. I’m doing it because of our friendship.”
Kit hung up the pay phone, and he let out a deep breath. Man, he hated to lie to Peter—and now it was what he did for a living. His whole life had suddenly become a lie.
Chapter 18
SSTOP IT MATTHEW! Don’t play with my head right now. I’m not in the mood for it.
Max had just thought of another of Matthew’s dumb lines: Why do kamikaze pilots wear helmets? She could actually hear the sound of Matthew’s dumb laugh at his own dumb jokes. Hardee-har-har! He always did that. Annoying little twit that he was.
She still hadn’t found her little brother and she didn’t know where else to look. Maybe at this slick, modern-looking house up ahead in the woods? Or maybe she could at least get a little food there. Some water?
F-o-o-d was on her mind. No, f-o-o-d was her mind.
Uh-oh, Spaghettios! She remembered a favorite line from TV. She knew just about everything that had ever been on the tube. Every show, every dumb and dumber commercial, every character in every show. The TV had been her baby-sitter, her mom and her dad, her hundred closest friends at the School.
Max stopped walking, stopped thinking idle thoughts. She cautiously eyed the house standing up ahead. Careful now. Be ever so careful.
The house looked dark and quiet and it made her wary and afraid in some deep place inside. A brier thicket grew around it. Oh, please don’t throw me in the brier patch.
She picked her way along the edge of the thicket and up a steep slope toward the modern construction of thick plate glass and rough timber.
Nobody home, nobody home! Please let there be nobody home. Please, please.
Let there be F-O-O-D here.
Her heart thudding, she tiptoed up a wooden flight of stairs and onto the back porch. She peered through sliding glass doors that needed a washing with Spic & Span real bad. She noticed things like that. The genius was in the details, right?
Forbidden, forbidden, forbidden, she was thinking. Nobody was supposed to see her. Ever. If they did, then they would die, too.
Max put her fingers to the sealed lips of the glass sliders and pulled. Her dula/thumb had been modified into a hand. Her fingers worked fine. She had been made that way.
The doors gave, opened. She was in!
Trap! she thought, but it was already too late.
Chapter 19
IT WASN’T A TRAP, after all. There was nobody waiting inside the house. The owners were obviously stupid, or really sloppy people, because they left their back door unlocked and unprotected. But no one was there to capture, or maybe even kill her.
The house was sloppy and disorganized inside. A family definitely lived here, though. She could tell by the mess of kids’ stuff. Bikes, in-line skates, video games.
“Matthew,” she whispered. She was hoping against hope that he might have found the same house. Maybe he was hiding in here somewhere. “Where are you, bro? It’s me. Max!”
She tiptoed into the kitchen. A refrigerator hummed noisily. A fridge—oh, God, yes. She pulled open the refrigerator door. She basked in the cool air and the frosty light of the bulb. Her eyes hungrily searched the shelves.
She grabbed a can of soda pop. Sprite. Obey your thirst!
Okay, I think I will.
She had a brief guilt trip that stealing food and soda pop was wrong. And that it just wasn’t a nice thing to do.
Oh, screw that. I’ve been shot. I’m being hunted. I need to eat and get some fluids in my body. End of story.
Max drank, then she began to gorge herself. Flying really made you hungry. It took incredible energy.
She peeled clingy plastic wrap off a glass bowl. Uh-oh, Spaghettios! She pushed cold spaghetti into her mouth. She didn’t care if the spaghetti was cold, just so long as it was food. Not good food, not great food, just food—food.
Got milk? Yippee! There was milk, too. She sniffed—it was okay. Barely. She gulped it down right from the carton.
She found a knife in a pie dish and she used it to hack off a large, sticky chunk of apple pie.
It was the best pie she’d ever eaten. No contest. No pie-eating contest, she thought. She grinned. She loved wordplay, any kind of play. Pie play, whatever. She was smart—really smart. That was the way they had made her, right?
Max looked in the freezer for more goodies.
Ooohh! Ooohh! Look what’s in the freezer! Klondike ice cream bars—a full box! What would you do for a Klondike bar?
She ate two Klondike bars, one for each hand. She craved sugar.
Suddenly, little fingers of apprehension started to walk up the back of her neck. Pinfeathers rose at her nape. She hunched her shoulders and listened.
Were the hunters out there? Was Uncle Thomas nearby, ready to pounce on her? Maybe he’d take her back—or maybe just put her to sleep.
She was dying to take a look around the house, though. Curiosity killed the cat, she thought. But not the girl.
She crept silently down the hall. She couldn’t resist this—a real house. Nobody home. What a treat!
“Creepycat. Kittytoes,” she whispered. It was a saying from the School—from when she was little, when she thought little kid thoughts. It probably came from Mrs. Beattie, who had been her nanny, then her teacher. Everything good in her life came before Mrs. Beattie died.
A bathroom was revealed behind a slatted door at the end of the hallway. Gross! Everything was black inside. Black toilet, black tub, black sink, even black soap. She looked longingly at the shower stall, black and glistening behind a clear curtain. She was sticky and dirty everywhere. Disgusting! Almost more than sleep she wanted to be clean. She wanted to feel hot water flow onto her body and her hurt wing, just above the second joint. Obviously, the wing wasn’t hurt too bad, though. Probably just clipped.
Max wound her long blond hair back and around her ears and listened hard for any sound in the house.
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There was none. She was sure of it. Her fingers found the light switch. Caressed it. Pressed it!
Light blazed in the black bathroom. Eerie.
She tensed to run—but that seemed kind of stupid. She was alone here. So she stepped all the way into the bathroom and closed the door. Locked it.
Then she saw herself in the mirror.
Four foot ten of her, with the most beautiful wings of anyone who had ever lived. Ever, ever, ever.
She touched her hair. Tilted her face slightly forward.
“I’m beautiful,” she whispered. “I really am, aren’t I? I’m a good girl, and I’m pretty. So why are they trying to kill me?”
Chapter 20
GILLIAN WAS ON THE PHONE first thing in the morning. “I hate it that you’re up in the mountains all alone. Are you all right, Frannie?”
“I’m fine. What time is it? Where are you?”
“The hospital, where else. It’s eight o’clock. So you slept all right?”
“Like a baby, Gil.”
“Liar.”
“You know me so well,” I said and laughed. I was almost awake now. It was beautiful outside my window.
“And isn’t that nice,” Gillian said. “For both of us.”
I let her get back to work, and then I had a thought—a bad one. It was this completely irrational but powerful fear that something might happen to Gillian, that maybe all my friends were in some kind of danger.
I knew it didn’t make rational sense. But still, I felt it.
I spent part of the morning driving back to where I’d stopped my car the night before. Where I had, or hadn’t, seen—what?
I was feeling hyper, maybe a bit hungover, and even a little spiritual. It was the hungover part that gave me pause for the most thought, and doubts. Had I been drunk the night before?
When the Wind Blows Page 5
