by Jen Haeger
I can see everything up until now has been a mask to protect me, but now it’s cracked and fallen away. He’s terrified I’m going to be convicted of Anna’s murder, and somewhere far away in a container I’ve chained and padlocked and buried deep in the ground, I’m also terrified.
Chapter Forty
“At present, the U.S. military cannot risk the distraction of members with WHISPs. It is not a matter of discrimination, but a matter of risk to human life. Members of the military who develop a WHISP during active duty will be placed into inactive roles.”
Statement released by Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Brian Hearne
Twenty-four hours later, after a much-needed visit from Lincoln and a sponge bath, Crone, Coppola, and the chief stream into my hospital room for the interrogation. My face is still bandaged over my eye, and I’m propped into a sitting position which is uncomfortable for my bruised hipbone, but I try my best to appear serene when they enter. Ben, branded accomplice at worst or biased bystander at best, is forced to wait outside. I want to catch Crone’s eye to get an idea of how bad the situation really is, but he’s avoiding my gaze, a bad sign. The chief’s eyes are like flint and his etched face gives nothing away, and Coppola is showing all the emotion of a dead squirrel. He’s the first to speak as he pulls a digital recorder from his pocket, sets it on my bedside table, and turns it on.
“This is the hospital bedside interview of Sylvia Wilma Harbinger, formerly NYPD Lieutenant Harbinger CDS, regarding the death of Anna Kowakowski.” Coppola’s been addressing the tape recorder, but now he turns his attention on me. “Ms. Harbinger, you’ve waived your right to have an attorney present at this questioning, is that correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“Ms. Harbinger, did you kill Anna Kowakowski?”
My mouth hangs open. Trust the FBI to bust straight to the point, but seriously? “No, I did not.”
“Did your husband, Benjamin Prieman, or your son Lincoln Prieman kill Anna Kowakowski?”
Now he’s just trying to piss me off, but I keep my face neutral and my jaw slack. “No, they did not.”
“Do you know who did kill Anna Kowakowski?”
“Yes.”
A gleam shines through Coppola’s eyes, though I’m not sure what it means. “Who killed her?”
“Technically, Rachel Chester.”
His face stiffens. “What do you mean by that?”
Here we go again. I take a deep breath and my cracked ribs protest. “Anna Kowakowski was murdered by Rachel Chester using her WHISP as a weapon.”
Coppola ignores this and changes tactics. “Ms. Harbinger, why were you at the lab the day of Anna Kowakowski’s murder?”
“I went there to save my son, Lincoln.”
“Save your son from what?”
Calm, I must stay calm. They want very badly to dismiss me as a raving madwoman. “From being murdered by Rachel Chester’s WHISP.”
“Why did you believe your son was in danger?”
“Because Rachel Chester had threatened to murder my son.”
His face beginning to tint pink, I’m guessing Coppola expected more rambling incoherency than terse assurance, and I take a very small amount of solace in the knowledge I’m throwing him off balance. In the long run, it won’t help my case in the least, but it’s a tiny personal victory.
“Why did you believe he was in danger in a secure New York University laboratory building?”
“Because Chester had worked there with him before.”
Getting nowhere with me, Coppola switches his approach. “Why were you covered in the victim’s blood?”
“Because when I first saw the body, I thought it was my son.”
“So?”
“So naturally, I approached the body and in kneeling down beside it, got blood from the blood pool on my legs…probably my hands too.”
The gleam is back in Coppola’s eyes. “Did you touch the body?”
Shit. I don’t want to break eye contact with Coppola, don’t want to close my eyes to picture the horror of the moment again and the sick relief which followed when I realized the body wasn’t Lincoln’s. Staring Coppola down, I’m desperate not to give him an inch, to show no weakness or doubt, but I have to tell the truth. “I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?”
“No.”
“You might have felt for a pulse or stroked what you thought was your dead son’s face, grabbed his hand?”
“It wasn’t my son, the body had blonde hair, and when I knelt beside it, I saw that, so I don’t think I touched the body, but I can’t be certain.”
Coppola’s expression is cold. “Convenient.”
The corners of my mouth flip up mirthlessly. “Not really.”
“Did you know Anna Kowakowski had a WHISP?”
“No. I didn’t know her, so I couldn’t possibly know she had a WHISP.”
This breaks Coppola’s cool. “You’re sure Lincoln didn’t tell you about another female student in his lab with a WHISP and you, worried he was working with another psychopath, took matters into your own hands to ‘protect’ your son?”
It’s a pretty good theory considering, and one which gives a hell of a lot more motive than “she just flipped out and randomly started killing people.” I have to give Coppola a little credit for it, but it’s so wrong it strikes me as funny. “Sorry, no. I didn’t even know Lincoln was back working in his old lab until three days ago.”
Crone, who has been dead silent up until this point, snorts and Coppola shoots him a scathing look. The chief, for his part, has remained still and impassive as a statue, but the quality of his eyes has maybe softened. Now he steps forward and places a hand on Coppola’s shoulder. Coppola has the good grace and survival instinct not to give the chief any dirty looks.
“Please, Ms. Harbinger, tell us what happened in your own words.” The chief’s voice is a mix of stern concern and professionalism.
He would never let our history together bias his judgement, and I haven’t yet given him any proof of my innocence, so I can’t blame him for not being on my side. Still, I can’t say the lack of support doesn’t hurt.
“Of course. Where would you like me to begin?”
“Why don’t you start with your disruptive outburst here at this hospital and your flight from hospital security?”
“All right.” I clear my throat and prepare to unload the whole story as dry as I can possibly make it, but then there’s a knock at the door.
“What is it?” Coppola takes three long strides to the door and wretches it open.
I can’t see who’s on the other side, but I can hear them.
“Sir, I’m sorry. There’s a call from forensics, Sir. They’ve been trying to reach you. They say it’s extremely urgent.”
Coppola’s face turns a darker shade of red. Spinning on his heel, he returns to the side of my bed and picks up the recorder. “We’re not finished here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He gives me a dark look, then raises his gaze to the chief and waves him toward the door. “Chief.”
The chief nods and walks to the door without even giving me a sideways glance. Coppola follows him, and Crone is the last to leave. Just before exiting, he turns and gives me a thumbs up, and I feel a prickle of tears in my eye.
Chapter Forty-One
“…I am the shadow the shadows must fear. I am the light in the darkness who will dispel the phantoms who walk among us. WHISPs are the enemy. Humanity will know my name…”
Excerpt from an anonymous letter posted to the Chicago Tribune
They don’t let Ben or anyone else visit in the interim, and as the minutes stretch out to an hour, I start to doze. I’m shocked when I open my eyes and just Crone is there.
“Am I dreaming or is this all part of some sadistic bad cop, good cop routine where you’re the good cop?”
A wide smile drapes itself across his mouth. “Heh, good one. No, you’d know better than to trust me, I hope. I j
ust came to give you the good news.”
“What good news?”
“Well, I’m not sure if you knew this, but the lab was equipped with a bunch of really fancy cameras.”
I shrug. “So what? Cameras don’t work with WHISPs around.”
His eyes sparkle. “Ahh, normal cameras don’t work with WHISPs around, but these are special cameras designed to withstand the…um…designed to work around a lot of weird shit, like what goes on in a physics lab.”
“Okay.” My mind is churning with new possibilities. Maybe the camera in the access hallway actually picked up Ray. It wouldn’t mean I’d be completely off the hook, but what I did would look a lot less crazy if there’s video of a WHISP chasing me and throwing a computer at me.
“And…” Crone’s furtive glance takes in the room as if he’s expecting someone to leap out from under the bed or from behind the nightstand. He edges closer and pulls out his cell phone. “There’s something on the tape I thought you might want to see.” His chubby fingers work over the screen and then he angles the phone so we can both watch the video playing on it.
Initially, it’s a blank, black and white, wide angle looking down on roughly half the lab outside the accelerator areas. After a few seconds, a girl with long blonde hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, presumably Anna, ambles into frame carrying a clipboard onto which she is making notes. Then the lights flicker and the girl’s head tilts up so she’s staring at the lights. A few more seconds pass with her staring upwards and then right when she seems to have come to a decision about them, her own WHISP, barely visible except in certain flickers of the light, moves.
But it doesn’t just move, the head part looks down and over the girl’s shoulder out in front of her and then the whole body of if turns away from the girl and appears as if it’s trying to get away. Moments later, the recording begins to blur and show static, but still visible is the grotesque scene unfolding in the camera’s field. The girl freezes, her whole body tensing until the lines of taut muscles stand out against her skin while all the while her WHISP is still squirming and lurching away. Then I can see a faint outline of shadow as its hands wind around the girl’s throat. Knowing what’s going to happen next, I turn my head and shield my face with my hand.
“Turn it off.”
“I thought you’d want to see how it works, finally.” There’s a slight injured quality to Crone’s voice.
“Not anymore.”
He pockets the phone. “Well, that’s it, then. Proof.”
I want to believe it. “They’ll question it. There’s some distortion.”
“There’s also a time stamp, and the time stamp says you and your hubby were driving like maniacs through a red light when this happened. Both of you are even visible in the shot.”
Now I let loose the smile I’ve been keeping tethered. “I could kiss you right now, Crone.”
Rolling his eyes, he chuckles. “Try to refrain yourself, Harbinger. I didn’t do anything but tell tech to double check those cameras.”
My smile slips. “Tell me about Chester.”
Crone frowns me down. “Don’t do this to yourself. She was trying to kill your whole fucking family.”
“Crone.”
He sighs and throws his hands in the air. “She had some kind of seizure. Fortunately, they made her wear a biosensor since her freak out with you and they got to her pretty quick. She’s conscious, but yeah, there was some damage and she’s not exactly right, well less so than she was. The docs aren’t sure if it’s temporary or permanent.”
“Is…she in pain?”
“No...well, I don’t think so.”
“Well, I guess that’s something.”
Shaking his head, Crone points a finger at me. “Seriously, forget about Rachel Chester. She’s already fucked your life up enough.” He drops his arm. “I’d say I’m sorry I ever let the chief bring you in on this case, but seeing as how you solved the damn thing, guess I can’t.”
“Oh, you let the chief bring me in. I’m sure he’d be interested to hear that.” I’m trying to be cheerful, given my having just narrowly beaten a murder rap, but there’s one more thing bothering me. “They’re going to overturn her conviction, aren’t they?”
“Probably. Given this clear evidence the WHISP did it.”
“But she was there at the first murders. We know that.”
Crone’s eyebrows shoot up.
“I know, I know, it doesn’t mean she made the WHISP do it or could’ve stopped it. The best we can get her on now is what, breaking and entering? Fuck.”
“You’ve got to let it go. With the WHISP gone, there’s no way to prove she was controlling it, absolutely none.”
I nod, not sure I’ll be able to. “Dammit, all this is going to do is create more WHISP hate.”
“Hey, WHISPs don’t kill people, psychopaths with WHISPs kill people.” Crone’s face is sober.
The silence between us lasts maybe all of five seconds before we both burst into wonderful, irreverent, side-pinching guffaws. I let the cathartic laughter bubble out of me until tears are running down my cheeks.
“Thanks, I needed that.”
“Hey, what are partners for?” He wipes his eyes. “Now, you get some more rest, because I know you’ve got like a four-day drive coming up pretty soon here. I hear Montana is beautiful this time of year.”
“Yeah, it is…”
“Now you better go enjoy your fucking early retirement.” Crone turns and ambles over to the door.
As he opens it, I rack my brain for the perfect thing to say. “Hey, Crone.”
He turns. “Yeah, Harbinger.”
“What’s your first name?”
He turns away, takes a deep breath, lets it out. “Dwight.”
“Thanks, Dwight.”
He raises a hand, but doesn’t look back. The door swings shut behind him.
Chapter Forty-Two
“WHISPs are nothing if not reflections of a society evolving, but it is not evolution as it is in nature. It is not survival of the fittest, but rather a manmade evolution of survival of the more technologically advanced. But beware. Technology is not always advancement, and when we rely on it too much, we lose our own precious ability to adapt to a changing world.”
Archer Cam, Environmental Priest
“Well, that’s the last one.” Ben puts the tape dispenser aside and rises gingerly, placing the box on top of a stack of similar cardboard boxes all neatly labeled in black Sharpie.
Padding over, I kiss him and run my fingers through his filling beard. “You know, you’re pretty spry for a man who had a spike of metal speared through his leg less than two weeks ago.”
“Oh yeah? Well, you’re pretty cute for…well, you’re just pretty cute.”
I kiss him again. “Why thank you, Mr. Bearded Mountain Man.”
“I thought it was appropriate, considering we’re moving to the wilds of Montana. You seem to like it.”
“I do.” I slide my hands down from his face and around his waist and pull him into a hug.
“Whoa, what’s this for?”
“Have I told you lately how much I appreciate you not bleeding out and dying?”
Ben releases me and takes a step back. “Only about as often as I tell you how much I appreciate you risking your life in a goddamn particle accelerator to save my life…and Lincoln’s.”
“Pah, it was easy. All I had to do was climb inside a big tube. You had to keep your blood inside your veins.”
“Funny…” Furrows form between Ben’s fuzzy brows. “Wait a minute, too funny. Sylvy, what’s going on?”
My smile is more of a straight line. “Maybe nothing. Come sit down, I made us some coffee…” I head for our bare kitchen and card table with two chairs we’ve been using as a kitchen table. “And by made coffee, I mean, snuck out to Java’s Cup ‘O’ Joe and got you a large hazelnut latte with a splash of caramel.”
Ben limps in behind me and winces. “Oh crap. I’m not going
to like this, am I?”
I sit, pat the seat next to me, and push the coffee toward him. Then I open the white box on the table. “I also got us crullers from Haversham’s Bakery.”
Ben slumps down into the chair and frowns. “Now you’ve got me really scared.” He snatches a cruller from the box and jams half of it in his mouth. After making a show of rolling his eyes back in his head and chewing blissfully for several seconds, he swallows and uses the other half of the cruller to jab at me. “Stop buttering me up and get to.” He then shoves the rest of the cruller in his mouth and takes the lid off his coffee, inhaling deeply.
“Okay, so I know that we just finished packing up everything we own and are getting ready to move across seven states, but what if we didn’t do that?”
The chewing ceases and Ben just stares at me. I avoid his gaze and instead sip at my coffee. Eventually, he finishes off the cruller, takes a sip of his own coffee and clears his throat.
“Instead we would what? Keeping in mind, of course, neither of us has a job now and we’ve given notice on the apartment and have”—he checks his watch—“oh, about five minutes in which to vacate the premises.”
“Well, there’s a new task force being put together.”
“Task force?”
“To, ah, handle WHISP-related crimes.”
Ben’s mouth falls open. “WHISP-related crimes?”
