by Jen Haeger
“Yes. Apparently, since the circumstances of Chester’s case went public, there’s been an increased awareness of the potential for people to use their WHISPs for illegal purposes and an increase in WHISP hate crimes, and the NYPD wants to make sure both are handled properly.”
“Okaay. Still not seeing the connection between this task force thingy and us.”
“Well, they’re looking for people with direct…um…experiences with WHISPs.”
His eyebrows skyrocket. “And by”—Ben uses his fingers to make air quotes—“‘experiences,’ do you mean, almost killed by?”
“Um, yeah, something like that.”
Ben buries his face in his hands. “You cannot be serious, Sylvy. After all we’ve been through. After all that you’ve been through. Sweetie, why on God’s green earth would we subject ourselves to something like that again? I thought you wanted to get away from all this WHISP stuff. I thought you wanted to retire.”
I touch the side of his face. “I did. But things change. Do you know I haven’t had a nightmare about my folks since Ray tried to kill us? It’s like all my fears were much worse than the actual thing. Dr. Fritz says it’s something to do with subconscious realization of…um…reality? Also, it’s not like I can really hide anymore.” I jab a thumb behind me at the wisp of a WHISP mimicking my every movement. Turns out being inside a particle accelerator with an unzipped radiation suit is a good way to earn a WHISP of your very own. “Anyways, it wouldn’t be full time, and we’d have a whole team working with us."
“Wait, wait, wait, hold on, we, us, what the hell would they want with me? I’m not a cop.”
“No, but you’re a physicist. There’s a whole new field of WHISP particle physics and the task force has funding from the federal government for research. You’d have your own lab.”
Ben sticks out his lower lip. “Maybe I don’t want my own lab.”
“Lincoln wants you to have your own lab. He wants to work in your lab…in fact…they may have already recruited him and he may have already said yes.”
“What! What the hell, Sylvy? How could you not tell me that?”
“Lincoln and I wanted to keep it a secret until I got a chance to think things over.”
Amused annoyance has transformed into anger and Ben’s face goes crimson. “This is bullshit. This is blackmail or intimidation or some shit.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry. I just…I honestly didn’t know what I wanted to do, and I didn’t want the same thing to happen to me with you and Lincoln ganging up.”
Ben stands and walks over to the sink. Turning, he folds his arms. “I would’ve never done that to you.”
“I know. And I’m not even sure I want to do this. I wouldn’t have waited until the night before we left if I was sure. But I feel like once we leave, there’s no coming back, like if I decide in a month or a week or even tomorrow, I want to take this opportunity, it’ll be too late.”
Staring at the floor and working his jaw, Ben is silent.
“I think I need to do this, Ben. I think I’ve finally faced my fears, but there’s more to it, like I also need to make amends for…I don’t know, for having these fears in the first place? No, that doesn’t make sense. For…” Words flutter around in my head like butterflies. “Ugh, it’s just, I’ve done so much damage with Chester… Do you understand?”
The only sound in the kitchen is of Ben breathing deeply in and out through his nose. I’m afraid to move. I don’t know which decision is the right one, but my gut is telling me to stay. Even if we didn’t join the taskforce, we would still be close to Lincoln, and I wouldn’t feel like I’m running away with my tail between my legs. I wouldn’t feel like Chester beat me after all. But then again, there’s always the benefits of a clean break, a fresh start. I might’ve been right before when I thought leaving the city behind could be exactly what Ben and I need to put everything behind us and move forward, unhindered by the past.
Ben stirs. “Okay. But where the hell are we going to live?”
Leaping out of the chair, I throw my arms around his neck. “We’ll figure something out.”
“Sylvy, are you sure you want to do this?”
Kissing him, everything that has felt wrong and out of place over the last week falls neatly in line. “I am now.”
###
A sneak peek at Book Two in the WHISPs series
Whispers of Terror
When the newly formed WHISP task force is called in to investigate a kidnapping and possible bioterrorism attack, NYPD Detective Sylvia Harbinger finds herself the middle-woman between the NYPD and an extremist anti-WHISP organization, exposed to a WHISP virus, and having lengthy conversations with her own recently formed WHISP. Or is she only talking to herself?
With Ben and Lincoln backing her in the task force laboratory, she races to find the kidnapping victims and a cure, yet the terrorists always seem to keep one step ahead. Sylvia’s running out of leads and out of time, but giving up isn’t an option. One of the lives she saves may be her own.
Chapter One
In every murmur, a breath of fear
Kirby is an ugly building. Even with the sun’s morning rays lighting its impressively tall face, there is nothing pretty about it: no fancy trim to the stone, no statuary, and no pillars. The fact that it houses and treats New York City’s criminally insane doesn’t help, and the fact that I’m here to visit Rachel Chester really doesn’t help. I promised Dr. Fritz I’d see her as part of my therapy, but right now, I’m frozen outside the front doors choking on a bone-dry throat.
It’s a totally different sensation from seeing her in Rikers, a totally different fear. This isn’t the diabolical murderer trying to invade my head and unravel my psyche. This is the woman I literally drove insane by destroying her WHISP. And I did it knowing what would happen to her. Never mind that her WHISP was trying to murder me and my family at the time, and that she was probably controlling it…probably.
I catch my reflection in the glass, but I can’t see my own WHISP today. Not in this bright sunlight. If I just stay in the sun I can pretend none of this ever happened. I can imagine Chester’s still in Rikers atoning for her crimes; I can believe I never jumped in a particle accelerator and developed a WHISP.
Honestly, I could come back another day. But that’s a lie. I know if I don’t go in now, I will never enter this building again…at least, not willingly.
Every step is like walking through molasses, but I make it to the doors then through them to the security checkpoint. The guard makes me leave my gun. It was stupid to bring it, but it’s habit, and if I’m honest, a bit of a security blanket. At reception, a woman with a lovely floral hijab smiles across the counter at me.
“Hello. How can I help you today?”
Deep breath. I take out my badge, also habit. “Hello. My name’s Detective Harbinger. I’m here to see Rachel Chester.”
The smile evaporates. “I’m sorry, Detective, but Ms. Chester has a very limited number of approved visitors—”
“I’m on the list.”
She consults her computer screen. “I see”—then points to a sign-in sheet. “Sign there. I’ll call for a security officer to take you.”
I hadn’t really considered Chester would be in a secure area, but why wouldn’t she be? She was a murderer, or her WHISP had been, and who could say what she was capable of without Ray?
“Detective?”
From seemingly out of nowhere, the guard has appeared. Young, but with the dour expression of an eighty-year-old widower, he points to the elevators beyond reception. The chill of the receptionist follows me as we walk away, and I’m not sure if she’s put off by my WHISP or if she knows I’m the one who put Chester in here. My escort, name badge Raymond, of all names, says nothing as we enter the elevator. He pushes the 10.
There’s no music, so the silence stretches like a piano string, broken only by the ping of the change of floors. I’d love to break the tension, but the walls are closing in
and I can’t think of a single thing to say other than, “Oh god, oh god, oh god.” When the doors finally open, I nearly burst out ahead of Raymond, but manage to stay a step behind him as we head down a white hallway lined with white doors. After we pass an unmanned attendant’s station, he stops abruptly and turns.
“Ms. Chester has been in a catatonic state for three months, but don’t try to touch her, give her anything, take anything from her, or touch any of her monitors or her IV’s. If you think there’s a medical problem, there’s a red button on the wall near the door to summon a nurse. Otherwise, I will return in fifteen minutes to take you back out. All visits are restricted to fifteen minutes for non-family members. Do you have any questions?”
Locked in a room with Rachel Chester for fifteen minutes. Is she strapped down? Can I have my gun back? I shake my head.
He continues down the hall, stops in front of room 1026, and pulls out a card dangling from a lanyard around his neck. My gut tightens as I scan the hallway. It’s completely empty. No, that’s probably not true. I’m sure there are other manned stations, just recessed so I can’t see them. Holding my breath, I hope to catch the chit-chat of nurses between medication distributions but there’s only a muffled scream.
“I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” Raymond opens a small window at the top of the door and looks through it before swiping his card across a pad next to the door and pulling it open.
Every fiber in my body is telling me to run, to bolt back to the elevator. You don’t want to see this! Inside, is a cheerful, if Spartan, room with yellow walls and a hospital bed. Chester sits in a wheelchair facing the single window streaming in sunlight. Next to her an IV stand and portable monitor unit whir softly. The scent of disinfectant hangs in the air, under it sweat, old saliva, and human waste.
You can do this. I will myself into the room and the door shuts behind me. Terror grips me. What if Ray is hiding in the sunlight? But, of course, she…it…isn’t. I saw to that. Could she…it…grow back? I could just stand here the whole fifteen minutes, then answer honestly when Dr. Fritz asked if I’d visited Chester. Yes, I visited her. I was in her room for fifteen minutes. But I’ve come all this way. I have to look her in the eye. Not for him, for me.
Hugging the wall, I edge closer to the figure in the wheelchair. I should probably say something, but I can’t break the silence, can’t stop listening to the whirr of the machines and the soft whisper of Chester’s breathing. I can almost see her face now, but a greasy curtain of her hair is in the way. Strands of it billow with every breath. My own breaths are jagged, my heart clogging my throat. Just a few more steps.
Everything goes white as Chester’s face comes into view. I’m blinded by the sunlight, my roaring blood blocks out every sound, but eventually I adjust. Here is the monster of my dreams. She looks sad. Drooping, sallow skin houses a shell of a person. Blank eyes stare into the light, seeing nothing. My heart slows, but each beat is painful. She wasn’t a good person, but she doesn’t deserve this. What have I done?
I’m sorry.
I can’t say the words aloud. But she could recover, couldn’t she? A few years of healing, of therapy, and she could be a person again. We don’t know this is permanent. Any moment, she could jump out of that chair and try to strangle me, just like old times. I know I’m reaching, but it’s all I have. I open my mouth: Snap out of it! But I can’t form the words.
A bit of foam has gathered at the corner of her open mouth, and as I stare, one of the bubbles pops. Thoughts break free of my subconscious prison and ruthlessly hurl to the surface of my brain.
That could be you.
Chapter Two
Fritz: What about your physical relationship with Ben since the change?
Harbinger: That’s actually going surprisingly well.
Fritz: Does that bother you?
Harbinger: Why would it bother me?
Fritz: You tell me.
Excerpt from Transcript of Session 47: Dr. Aziz Fritz with Det. S. Harbinger
“Admit it, it’s weird.”
Ben blinks, his eyes straying over my shoulder into the shadows beyond then back again. “What? No.”
“You’re cute when you’re lying.” I boop his nose with my finger. Ben, my Ben. We’re tangled up in sheets, basking in the euphoria of a renewed partnership, a revitalized marriage fueled by a shared near-death experience and reunion of our small family. A year ago, I couldn’t have imagined being on a special WHISP task force with both my husband and my son. In fact, Ben and I were supposed to have been in a tech-free cabin in Montana by now, sheltered from all things WHISP. That ship sailed when I climbed into a particle accelerator and got one of my own.
To say I’m still adjusting is an understatement. After a year, I swear there’s a pull in the center of my back from the invisible tether between us. I still flinch sometimes when I catch a glimpse of it, and get the sense of someone following me all the time, though the smothering panic attacks are very rare now. Most of the time, I just try to forget it’s there. My therapist is constantly reminding me how unhealthy this attitude is, but I’ve gotten pretty good at ignoring him, too.
Ben sighs. “Okay, okay. Sometimes it’s weird, but only…”
“When I’m on top?”
“When I can see her.”
My eyebrows twitch. “Her?”
“It. I meant, it.”
His backpedaling obvious, I raise onto an elbow and stare him down. “Please don’t tell me you’ve named my WHISP. That’s worse than naming my boobs.”
He smirks and reaches out for a gentle grope. “I thought you liked their nicknames.”
I bat his hand away and sit up. “Don’t change the subject. Did you name it?” I want to be amused that my particle scientist husband studying the WHISP phenomenon at its basic level would name mine. It would be akin to an oncologist naming a tumor. But after dealing with Rachel Chester’s murderous WHISP, “Ray,” I can’t find the humor I’m searching for. Irritation itches at the insides of my throat, spoiling the post-coital glow.
“It’s not…” He sits up and starts again. “I didn’t want to, but one day it just popped into my head and I couldn’t get it out.”
“Couldn’t get what out?”
Ben’s skin has paled and taken on a green sheen. His eyes flit away from mine then back again.
“Ben—”
“Liv.”
“Liv?” As images of a rock star’s actress daughter force their way into my head, the tingles of a smile pull at the corners of my mouth, but they’re smothered when I realize it’s just a bastardization of my name, like Rachel to Ray.
Ben must see the disgust in my face. “I’m sorry, babe, I know it’s…”
“Fucked up?”
“Similar.”
I close my eyes and let myself fall back onto my pillow. How long is Rachel fucking Chester going to ruin my life? But really, would any name be better? Jo, Marie, Consuela, Anastasia, Nefertiti…Bob? Liv. I have to admit, the name seems to fit. Am I just pissed because I didn’t get to name her myself? No, not her, it. Oh, who am I kidding? Liv is totally a chick. My little chicky WHISP. I imagine her under the bed now staring up at the underside of the box springs. When a chill runs through me, I open my eyes.
Ben is staring. “I’m sorry.”
I reach up and rub his beard scruff. “I know. It’s okay. I mean, it’s not okay, okay, but it’s okay. It could be worse. Liv is kinda sexy.” I’m really trying here.
“Yeah?” Ben kisses the mound between my thumb and forefinger.
Not going to happen now. The sound of Lincoln’s shower turning on saves me having to disappoint Ben on the possibility of a round two. My mind flickers to memories of round one and I wonder again about the thickness of Lincoln’s apartment walls and cringe inwardly.
“He probably won’t hear us in the shower.” Ben raises an eyebrow in mock hope.
My other excuse; I point to the clock as a reminder of an earlier, hastily pressed snooze
button.
He groans, falling back onto the bed. “Just five more minutes.”
I lean over him and kiss him on the nose. “Five minutes more was ten minutes ago.”
He opens his eyes and frowns. “I really am sorry. I love you, and I don’t want you to think…anything’s changed.”
“Everything’s changed, but I know what you mean.”
My cell buzzes on the nightstand and I glance at the clock again. Seven fifty. Almost eight. Almost an appropriate time for someone to call, but not quite. My cop sense comes to life and washes over me like a splash of cold water. I reach for the phone with cold fingers. It’s the station. “Harbinger.”
“I’d good morning you, Detective, but I don’t want to blow smoke up your ass, because we both know that’s not true.”
Crone isn’t officially on the task force, but many of our cases have started as his. “What happened?”
“Hate crime, looks like. Someone hit a WHISP shelter last night.”
“Shit. How many?”
“One, for sure.”
“Only one?” A single WHISP murder, even at a shelter, wouldn’t justify an early morning phone call.
“For sure. There’s an unknown number missing from the shelter.”
“Missing. Okay.” Still not worth this phone call. “What else?”
Crone clears his throat. “There’s a guy here from CAW who wants to talk to you about it.”
There it is. “An informant?”
“More like a spokesperson. He wants to clear their name in this.”
“Kinda early for that, isn’t it? If this just happened last night, how did they even know about it already? Seems a little ‘the lady doth protest too much,’ doesn’t it?”
If Crone gets the reference, he doesn’t let on. “Are you coming in, or what?”
“Be there in thirty.” I let out a long sigh. Not as bad a call as it could’ve been this early in the morning.
