by Nate Kenyon
“Perhaps they can control it, as they say.”
“There’s no controlling what she has,” Wasserman said. “Now they want to offer the ability to anyone with money enough to buy it. God forbid it gets into the hands of madmen. Dictators? Terrorists? Imagine someone like Hussein with that kind of power!”
Shelley stood up and went to the window, hugging her arms across her chest. Wait just long enough to add the proper tremor. She turned to find him staring at her. “What do you think we should do?”
“We have to stop them, and stop her,” he whispered. “The way we always talked about. Wipe this obscenity off the face of the earth. Destroy every sample, every record. It has to end right here.”
Shelley soothed him, agreed to all he said, let him caress and touch her. Then, after he’d gone, she went back out on the patio.
The air had turned cooler in the late afternoon, and a breeze picked up stray leaves and whirled them across the lawn. She watched the orange and red colors dancing through the deepening shadows, and sensed an air of neglect, as if the grass were just half an inch too long, the shrubs grown out and getting leggy. A dead branch had come down near the edge of the wooded patch on the southeast corner.
The phone was ringing. Shelley stumbled back inside and fumbled for it on the counter, picked up on the fourth chirp.
“Our men lost her,” Berger said. “She pulled a stunt at a light, there were witnesses. We didn’t have any secondary support, it was only tagged as a shadow. If we knew that she was on to us—”
For the first time that day, real fear washed over Jean Shelley. This was not part of the carefully designed plan. Up to this point, everything had gone perfectly with Jess Chambers. Shelley had planted the seeds of doubt, challenged her to let it all go, knowing full well she would not. Jess knew just enough to be suitably angry, but not enough to blow things wide open. Wasserman was the last piece of the puzzle, and his undoing would serve as the perfect final distraction for the firestorm that would come.
This would not do. She clutched the phone in a white-knuckled hand, took a deep breath, and let it out. “She wouldn’t have suspected a tail. She must have seen you following her and put it together.”
“These men are good.”
“Not good enough, damn it!”
Berger sighed. “She can’t have gone far. We have someone watching her place, the school.”
“Then find her. Don’t bring her in, just find her and don’t lose her again.”
“We’re working on it. But Philippa and I agree, we can’t wait any longer or this is all going to come down on our heads. The director is a liability, he’s at the breaking point and I can’t predict what he’ll do. We’ve put too much pressure on him, and he didn’t like bringing Chambers into this in the first place, I didn’t like it either, to be honest.”
“It was necessary for personal reasons. Everything we know confirms our decision. She has the family history with her brother, DNA testing was a match, and the results speak for themselves. They’ve made the connection and it’s strong enough to bear weight.”
“That’s your call. We have what we want.”
“Good. There are other endings available to us, if Jess doesn’t work out. You understand what I mean?”
“They’ll arrive by helicopter shortly.”
“Good. When you go in, you’ve got to be careful. You know what you’re up against. The girl is agitated and we don’t have her completely contained, whatever you and Cruz say about this new drug. When you move, tell Evan he’s done and that we’re pulling his funding.”
“He won’t like that.”
“Of course he won’t like it. That’s the point. If he’s riled up, it will look worse for him. If you can break him, go ahead. He’s got to be the fall guy for this.”
Dr. Jean Shelley looked out her window. The hummingbirds were back, hovering just beyond the glass. The sight soothed her. Then why did she feel unsettled, as if there were something she should understand, something she should remember, but could not?
It was probably the sickness at work in her brain. She could feel it coursing through her veins, carrying the killer cells to the farthest points in her body. Microscopic invaders sent to undo her from within. She did not have long now, and she was burning alive.
Where would Jess Chambers go?
When she really thought about it, the answer seemed so obvious she couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to her until now.
“You know what she’ll do,” Shelley said into the phone. The voice on the other end seemed like a million miles away. “She won’t wait. She’ll come back for the girl.”
“Then we’ll spot her.”
This was it; one way or another, this was the end of a very long road.
“That’s what we want. It’s time now. Everyone has to be on alert. Put the wheels in motion.”
And please, don’t let me down.
STAGE THREE
—33—
The Sikorsky S-76 helicopter lifted off from the private airfield at 3:45 p.m. central time. On board were eight men in full attack gear: STRIKE DOAV Vests, black Under Armour moisture-wicking T-shirts, goggles, radio, combat boots, Hell-storm Python Light Rappel gloves, and M9 pistols. Four carried specially modified M4 assault rifles with dart rounds. One of them held something considerably more dangerous.
The Special Operations team was led by Bertie McDwyer. McDwyer had served ten years with the army, in Europe and then in the Middle East during Desert Storm. He had been assigned to various bases within the United States before joining the army’s school for snipers at Ft. Benning.
After graduating he had carried out several clandestine operations, neutralizing high-level targets on five separate occasions without a single complication. Now he was a killer for hire. He was known for striking fast and hard and without hesitation. He was young, strong, and experienced.
And at the moment he was scared shitless, for several reasons. McDwyer knew exactly what they were up against in this mission, even if the rest of his team did not. He didn’t like the way this one was playing out.
This bothered him a great deal. Snipers were supposed to be immune from human emotions such as remorse and fear.
It was a basic tenet of their training, and there was good reason for it. He had seen more than one man killed because of a split-second hesitation on the battlefield.
The helicopter banked left and slipped low under an orange sun. The glint off the chop of a small lake hit McDwyer in the eyes. He winced and glanced away. Like the reflection off the scope of a rifle. It had happened to him only once, but that was enough. A sniper, looking into the lens of another. Predator to predator, like two lions crouched in the brush. He had been first to pull, and he sometimes thought about that split-second difference. Who lived, who died, playing God in the blink of an eye.
“Listen up. Everson and Keene, put that shit away.” The two men yanked iPod earbuds from their ears and shoved them into pockets. “We deploy at 1730. I will only say this once. We are to contain and provide cover for ground forces moving in on the facility. Their mission is to locate and subdue the target peaceably. We are on reserve team duty.”
Boots tapped, knees bounced. Like purebred horses straining at the bit, McDwyer thought. They were some of the best available. He’d trained most of them himself. They had been told very little about this particular mission, and that was dangerous. McDwyer knew that the most mistakes were made when the team did not have all the facts. But Berger had insisted upon the highest levels of security, and could not be convinced otherwise.
“I know you want to be first in line, but you will obey my orders. A highly sensitive and dangerous subject is housed in this facility. We have strict orders to disable if necessary, but do not shoot to kill. I repeat—anyone attempting a kill shot will be terminated themselves. Permanently.”
“Who’s the target?”
McDwyer hesitated just long enough for them to see it in his eyes. “A j
uvenile female.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Never you mind, Everson. We are a safety net only. I do not want weapons drawn unless I give the command to move in.”
“Sir—”
“I anticipate zero complications on the ground, and I sure as fuck don’t expect them up here. Anyone have any problems with that? Good. We have one hour and forty minutes to deployment.”
McDwyer distributed a photo and description of the target, and moved back to the front to let them sort it all out. He plopped himself down next to the pilot, a twenty-year veteran who had flown thirty missions in Desert Storm. A family man, and himself a killer of over fifteen people. Jesus, McDwyer thought. He massaged his temples with both pointer fingers. He didn’t know why he was thinking about this right now.
“How’s the daughter? Any news?”
McDwyer found Keene crouched near his seat. He covered his headset mike. “Keep it off-line, will you?”
“Sorry. You just looked like you could use some company.”
“I shouldn’t have told you a fucking thing about it.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of, sir. We all make mistakes.”
“It’s not a mistake, Keene. It’s a human being.”
“Sorry. You know what I meant.” Keene scratched his underarm with a gloved finger. “How old is she?”
“She’ll be nine next May.” McDwyer shook his head. Nine years old, and they’d never even met. The mother was a woman he’d slept with two or three times while on leave from the army, when he was only twenty-three. Barely old enough to have hair on his dick. She’d called to tell him just last week. Why now, he had no idea; maybe she was after money.
In his line of work, family meant weakness. He couldn’t afford to let this get in the way. It was bad enough he’d let it slip to Keene. One too many tequila shots last night. It wasn’t like him, and he wondered for just a split second whether he was having some sort of breakdown.
“I just figured I’d ask, after seeing the photo you gave out back there,” Keene said. “A little girl, about the same age, I thought maybe you were having trouble getting your head around this one. I wouldn’t blame you.”
“That’s enough.” McDwyer kept his voice low and hard. “You don’t know the first thing about it. Get back there and buckle in.”
Keene looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded and returned to his seat. McDwyer glanced at the pilot, but the man stared straight out the windshield and made no sign that he had heard the exchange. It wasn’t likely. The sound of the rotor would drown out everything but a shout.
Does Keene have a point? McDwyer didn’t know what scared him worse, knowing what this little girl could do if she got away from them, or the possibility of having to line her head up in his sights and squeeze the trigger.
McDwyer had been the kill switch on this project for over a year now, but it wasn’t until last week that he’d started questioning why.
The helicopter banked across a field, low enough to cause a ripple in the brush. They were less than an hour and a half away now.
McDwyer wondered, for the hundredth time, what exactly would be waiting for him when they arrived.
—34—
“Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon. Your class get canceled? You forget something, maybe?” The guard’s greedy eyes lingered, staring at Jess Chambers’s nose, mouth, breasts, and she let him do it, let him hope that she had come back for him.
She flashed him the pass from her bag and smiled, a big, toothy grin. “Has Dr. Wasserman left yet?”
“Don’t know, but he might have, I had to use the facilities. You want me to radio up?”
“No, that’s all right. I’ll only be a minute. I just wanted to look for an earring.”
“You women are always losing stuff. Maybe when you get done, we can go get that drink….”
Now comes the hard part, Jess thought, and she parked behind the hospital again and hurried to the front doors, keeping her face down and turned away from the windows. She hadn’t wanted to wait for Patrick’s help. A lot of this depended on luck, but she didn’t want to waste another second, now that her mind was made up. God only knew what Wasserman might do to Sarah while they all sat around like career politicians trying to decide the best way to get her out.
She hoped Andre was busy elsewhere. She could only pray that her photograph hadn’t been handed out to everyone who worked in the building.
She clipped her pass to her jacket and walked fast down the empty hall, listening for voices. She heard them in the playroom; it was the right time, she had timed it perfectly.
She opened the doors and studied each corner of the room. There were six or seven children in here now, and two white-shirted women who might have been counselors. It did not take her long to find Dennis, in his baseball cap and sneakers. He was standing by the bookshelves, counting the books.
She waited just a moment to harden herself for what had to be done.
The two counselors looked up when she came in but didn’t say a word, and she didn’t see anything but mild interest in their eyes. That would change. She crossed the room quickly. Dennis saw her coming. He smiled. “Onet-wothreefourfivesixseven. Seven books.”
“Yes, Dennis, that’s right. Seven books.” She leaned into him and whispered, “I’m sorry about this,” and then she put her hand on his forearm, let her hand rest firmly so he could feel it.
The reaction was immediate. Dennis jerked away from her like he had been burned. He shook his head. She steeled herself and reached for him again.
“Don’t touch Dennis, no touching, that’s the rules, Dennis doesn’t like to be touched…” His voice wound up like a siren. He backed into the bookcase, eyes rolling, and turned, not looking at anything now. He flailed out with both arms. Books fell to the floor with a loud double thump. He pushed at more books and they teetered and fell like dominoes, pages fluttering. “No touching, Nononono-nonono…”
The two counselors got up and came over fast. “You’re not supposed to do that,” one of them said over the shouting. “God. Nicki, get someone in here.” The other woman scurried out of the room. “Now, Dennis, calm down—oh, hell.”
Dennis had backed himself into the corner and looked like he wanted to go right on through. He was big, clumsy; it wouldn’t be easy to get him back in line. He had reached a fever pitch now, his head whipping back and forth, and his voice had begun to stir up the other children, one of them laughing, another starting to throw toys at the screen on the window. Bang-bang. The female counselor was trying to get him to stop flailing his arms without touching him again.
All make this up to you, Dennis, Jess thought. I promise. She ducked out of the room and back down the hall. Wasserman’s office door was ajar, she could hear voices. Nobody came out after her. She hoped she had bought herself enough time.
The elevator was damnably slow, and she wished she had taken the fire stairs. Finally the doors opened onto the smell of disinfectant and stale air. It’s cold down here, too cold, and she resisted the urge to hug her arms to her chest.
The man behind the desk (not Andre, thank God) looked like he had left high school about a week ago. She didn’t recognize him. “There’s a problem in the play area,” she said, as he came around to meet her in his white hospital suit. “It’s Dennis. They need help calming him down.”
“I’m not supposed to leave—”
“Listen to me. Andre’s out for coffee and Evan asked me to come get you. We’re short staffed and Dennis is going to give them trouble. Go on now. I’ll watch the desk here until you get back.”
He swallowed hard. “I’ll be just a minute.”
She waited until the elevator doors closed. There was not much time. It wouldn’t be long before Wasserman and the others figured out what she had done, and why. She had to get Sarah out now.
But the keys proved impossible to find. Behind the desk was an intercom speaker, a series of cubbyholes labeled with patients’ nam
es and doses of medication, heavy canvas gloves, and a can of mace. A little three-inch television flickered from the corner, the sound turned low.
The orderly would have the keys on him, she thought, of course he would. If they came back down before she got Sarah to the stairs, she would be trapped. Damn. How the hell are you going to get through that door!
Despair settled over her like dusty cobwebs. She had been driven by emotion, by need, not stopping long enough to think more than a few minutes ahead. Whatever she was searching for was close now, she could taste it like blood on her teeth. But she had backed herself into a corner, and now the walls were closing in on all sides as she imagined what might happen to her when she got caught down here.
It’s too late. Just get out while you still can.
That was the voice of a quitter, and she refused to listen.
It wasn’t until she turned away in frustration that she felt the answer, an unseen presence so vivid she brushed instinctively at her face and hair as if to push it away. Only then did she wonder how she had failed to notice it before. It was as if the air itself were alive.
Jess Chambers felt an odd transient moment of doubling, as if she were looking through two pair of eyes, one outside, one within. The hair on her neck and arms rose as if in warning. For another long moment she stood silent, immobile, and then pushed through into the corridor with a sense that she had stepped into a darker place.
—35—
The corridor was in shadows, and any other residents who might remain behind the padded walls were still. An eerie calm had settled over the basement. Jess Chambers passed each door with ghost images burned into her mind, the feeling that she had been here before, that she existed both on the outside and the inside of these prison cells.
As a psychologist you have to listen to other people’s private thoughts, thoughts nobody else ever has to know about. But a child doesn’t hide things the way adults do; with children, you don’t have the same barriers. So why, in the time they had spent together, did Jess still feel Sarah had been hiding from her?
