Monica recoiled from him.
He lurched for her and seized her by the arm. “There is no master but the master.”
Monica tried to push him away, but his grip was like iron. He muttered the words again and again, not to her, but through her. She stumbled a step backward but somehow stayed on her feet.
“There is no master but the master.”
She reared back to strike him, to break his hold on her by force, but then his shaking suddenly became violent. His head arched back, his eyes grew slack, and he released her. Then, like a puppet cut from its strings, he fell to the floor with a sickening crack and began flopping like a fish out of water.
He was having a seizure.
Monica’s heart hammered in her chest, but she put the panic aside and acted on instinct. She had been an ER doctor. She knew trauma. Her movements now were automatic. She got down beside him and cradled his head so it wouldn’t strike the floor again.
“Help!” she cried. “Somebody help me!” She had to get him to a bed, off the hard floor. But she couldn’t do it alone. She needed help.
Heavy footsteps sounded, and in seconds Lichen appeared.
“He’s having a seizure,” Monica said. “Help me.”
But instead of helping her Lichen turned on his heels and ran back the way he had come.
“Wait! What are you—”
But he was already gone. Monica sat there stunned as the sound of Lichen’s footsteps died away. She looked back at Yoshida. His body twitched and rattled and banged itself against the linoleum. She held him tightly, using all her strength to minimize the harm he did himself. But it was no good. His head still struck the floor. His back still arched. His legs still kicked.
There was shouting and more footsteps, and then Lichen reappeared, this time with Galen, who wore silk pajamas, slippers, and a bathrobe.
“He was shaking,” Monica said, “talking to himself. Then he fell—”
Galen got down beside her and gently nudged her away. He grabbed Yoshida’s head, cradled it in his hands, licked his lips, and then bent down and pressed his lips against Yoshida’s forehead.
Monica watched, mystified, as Galen held that position.
Then, to her astonishment, Yoshida’s body began to relax. His feet stopped kicking. His arms slunk to his sides. His body went limp. He was like a machine being turned off with all of its parts slowly pulled to the ground by gravity.
The kiss ended, and Galen sat back on the floor, head cocked to the side, watching Yoshida with concern.
Yoshida blinked his eyes open. For several seconds, he was perfectly still, staring up at the ceiling. Then, ever so slowly, the corners of his mouth turned up into that familiar smile. He turned his head to the side, saw Galen’s face and said pleasantly, “Hello, master.”
Monica ran back to her room in a sprint. She didn’t stop when Galen called to her. She didn’t stop when she nearly ran into Stone in the hall. She didn’t stop until she reached Wyatt’s room, threw open the door, ran inside, and locked the door behind her.
Wyatt woke with a start. “Mom?”
She went to the bed, got under the covers, and held him tightly.
No one came to the door.
Wyatt didn’t speak.
And after what felt like hours, Monica fell asleep.
13
IRVING
Director Eugene Irving was not a man to be trifled with. To serve as the director of a federal agency such as the BHA, one needed balls of steel, plenty of ambition, and a few friends of political importance. Irving had all three—or all four, depending on whether you counted the steely balls separately.
His appointment as director had been partially due to his performance at the FBI, where behind his back his colleagues had called him the Charmer, as in snake, and partially because his cousin was a Republican congressman from Kentucky with plenty of pull on the National Intelligence Committee. Irving had a gift for making his superiors believe that he was the only man below them who recognized their greatness. And since such a man made for good company, Irving’s superiors were eager to take him along with them as they rose through the ranks of the FBI. In short, he had ridden several men’s coattails to a position of power.
Now, if only he could show the current powers-that-be—that is to say, the administration—how effective he was in his current post, he might actually have a future beyond it. As it was, he was only days away from a forced resignation. These Healers were going to destroy him.
He had not yet actually told anyone outside the agency all they had learned about the Healers, and he had given his agents strict instructions to the do the same. They would comply. None of them wanted another agency to start a turf war. But secrecy, Irving knew, could only be maintained for so long. The FBI, which leaked to the press like a sieve, had taught Irving that the almighty printed page could topple a man’s career in a single day.
He had a plan. A good plan. It had been to deal with the threat himself, alone, and then go to the administration to show them that he had not only discovered a serious problem but also handled it so deftly that they would see in him the potential for greatness. We need not worry our pretty little heads with Eugene Irving on the job. Why isn’t he the defense secretary, Mr. President? Why isn’t he on your cabinet, Mr. President?
It had been a scenario Irving had played out many times in his mind. He had been waiting for the Healers. Or at least something like them. Something dangerous. Something that he could throw a lasso around, wrestle to the ground, and subdue appropriately. A trophy. A means to express his might, his competence.
But as he sat through the status meeting that morning, it was becoming increasingly clearer to Irving that the Healers were not the golden ticket he had long been waiting for. In fact, they were becoming just the opposite.
“I thought you said Healers were going back to this man’s house,” Irving said, keeping the fury in his voice only barely contained so that they thought him civil but still feared him.
The BHA agents around the conference room table looked at him and then back at Agent Riggs, who stood at the front of the room, giving the report.
“You said,” Director Irving went on, giving each syllable the proper emphasis, “that Healers were going to go to the home of this . . .” he looked down at the paper in front of him and found the name, “this Richard Schneider to give him a countervirus. That’s why I had agents stake out the place. That’s why they’ve been sitting there around the clock for three days now. Because you told me that Healers would be going to this location. And yet Healers have not gone to this location. Am I hearing you correctly?”
As Agent Riggs nodded, Director Irving thought how unfortunate it was that Riggs was African American. Irving had no bias against his race, of course, but he did enjoy making people blush. And right now, the blackness of Riggs’s skin was denying Irving the sweet pleasure of seeing someone’s face go from white to beet red at having been taught his place in the universe of Eugene Irving.
Riggs cleared his throat. “Sir, the patient in question was the source of our intelligence. Our suspicion—”
“Your suspicion?” Irving cut in, his voice icy. “The God-fearing government of the United States of America does not pay you to have suspicions, Agent Riggs. Suspicions do not solve crimes. Suspicions do not put bad people in prison. Suspicions do not allow old ladies to feel safe and sleep well at night. This”—he pounded on the table for emphasis—“is an agency of action. We do not waste time on unsubstantiated conjectures or unfounded intelligence. These Healers are a threat. All of our efforts should go into finding them, not sitting around waiting for them to come to us. They’re as big as horses, for crying out loud. They shouldn’t be too hard to pick out of a crowd. And until we find them, until we stop them and contain this virus, this nation is in danger. Now, I want results. I want Healers in custody. Yesterday. Do I make myself clear?”
Irving’s face was as stern and demanding as he could muster, bu
t inside, he was beaming. The speech had been a bit melodramatic in places, but overall it showed great political promise. I can work a crowd, he thought. He imagined himself standing at the pulpit of the Republican National Convention, his arms outstretched, his fingers giving the V for victory, the deafening roar of the crowd below him, and tens of thousands of balloons and confetti raining down around him. He would have to give some thought to a running mate.
“Perhaps we should ask other agencies for help.”
Director Irving was brought back to reality. Someone at the table had spoken. He looked around and saw that everyone was staring at the virologist from Fort Detrick. Frank Hartman.
“Excuse me?” Irving said.
Frank leaned forward. “I said, maybe it’s time to involve other agencies. We might have some more luck locating the Healers if we had more warm bodies out there looking for them. We could notify the FBI, the LAPD, even the NSA. I’m sure with their help, we’d have a better chance of success.”
Irving was so shocked by the audacity of this man, by the very idea that someone would think it appropriate to counsel the director of the agency in front of other agents, that Irving sat there, mouth agape. What he wanted to do was reach across the table and smack the man. But after such a moving speech, he didn’t want to spoil the moment, and so he remained as cool as possible. “Dr. Hartman, you’re new at the agency. You’ve only been here a few days, so I will forgive your speaking out of turn. If I want the advice of someone unfamiliar with the operations and capabilities of this agency, I’ll ask my mother-in-law. If you have opinions, I ask that you keep them to yourself.”
To Irving’s even greater surprise, this did not shut the man up.
“What Riggs was trying to say,” Frank said, “about his suspicion, which is also my suspicion, is that Healers did not go to the home of Richard Schneider because they knew agents were watching the house.”
The agents around the table looked from Frank to Irving as if expecting Irving to pull a gun and use it.
“What I mean is, I think someone told the Healers that agents were watching the house. Somehow they know the BHA is looking for them.”
It was Irving’s turn to blush, not from embarrassment but from barely contained fury. “Perhaps you weren’t listening, Dr. Hartman, but what you think and what you suspect is of no importance. We will solve this problem. We will find the Healers. I think I speak for my fellow agents here when I say that we don’t appreciate you telling us we’re incompetent.”
“That’s not what I—”
“That’s precisely what you said. To imply that we need to ask for help is to imply that we can’t do the job ourselves.” Before Frank could respond, Irving stood and faced them all. “Unlike our visitor here, I know that each of you is capable. I have full confidence in you. We will do our duty. And we will do it our way, the right way.
Irving left the room before another word could be spoken. Always leave them wanting more, he thought.
As he moved down the corridor back toward his office, he couldn’t get Frank Hartman out of his mind. The man was becoming more of a burden than a help. If this kept up, he’d have no choice but to remove him from the agency. That would take a little doing, of course. The Defense Department had cleared Frank’s temporary reassignment—even though they hadn’t understood exactly what that assignment was—and sending Frank packing back to Fort Detrick without a legitimate reason would be a tricky business indeed.
That problem gnawed at him as he sat in his office, staring at the pile of paperwork that demanded his attention. I can’t work like this, he thought. I can’t work under this stress.
So he did the only thing one could do when the rigors of one’s job became too demanding. He went to the golf course.
Eighteen holes has a way of making one’s problems go away, and by day’s end, Director Irving was feeling up again. Which might have been the reason why his guard was down when he returned home that evening. He pulled into his driveway without noticing the strange white van parked at the curb a block away from his house. Such abnormalities typically raised flags of suspicion, but Irving was in too good of a mood to suspect anything.
He took the golf bag from the trunk of his Mercedes and went inside. He set the golf bag by the door and, out of habit, went straight to the refrigerator. It wasn’t until the refrigerator door was closed and the Coca Cola can opened in his hand that he saw the man sitting on his sofa.
Irving dropped the soda and reached for a holster that wasn’t at his hip. Instead his hand found a golf glove protruding slightly from his pocket.
“Director Irving,” George Galen said. “I hope you don’t mind us coming in and making ourselves at home.”
There was motion to Irving’s right, and he spun around to see a man too large to be a normal man. Another one of slightly lesser size now blocked the door.
Galen gestured with his hand. “These are my associates Stone and Lichen. They will not harm you, Director Irving. Nor will 1.1 gather you know who I am.”
“George Galen,” Irving said, pleased at himself for keeping his voice so steady.
Galen got up from the sofa and approached him. “Yes. I am George Galen. But I am more than that as well. I have been for a very long time. I am a prophet.”
Irving felt his muscles tense. In his peripheral vision he saw nothing he could use as a weapon. The only item currently at his disposal was the golf glove, and that would do little against men this size.
“A prophet because I see truth,” Galen said. “A prophet because I see a future for all of us that no one else believes in. No one else but those like Stone and Lichen here, whose minds are open. To believe in this future requires faith. You’re a man of faith, are you not, Director Irving?”
“What do you want?” Irving said, his hands forming into fists.
“I want you to believe, Director Irving. I want you to have faith. And above all, I want you to be happy.”
Irving felt massive hands pin his arms to his side. A sharp kick to the back of knees sent him to the floor. Then the hands holding him lifted him slightly to a kneeling position.
Galen stepped forward, looked down into Irving’s face, and gently put his hands on the side of Irving’s head. “It would have been better if you had left us alone, Director Irving. As it is, you’re getting in the way. I’m even told that you have a countervirus of your own now. This disappoints me greatly. I can’t have you impede us. Not now. The best part is about to begin.”
At this point, Director Irving suspected that his neck would be snapped or that a gun would be pointed. But no movement to his neck was made and no gun produced. Instead, George Galen did the last thing Director Irving would ever suspect. He licked his lips, bent down, and kissed Irving on the forehead.
14
ARENA
Jonathan sat upright in bed and watched the door. It was nearly six in the morning, which meant Dr. Owens would be coming around to check their vitals any minute now. She did so several times a day, and in the tew days since her arrival, Jonathan had grown to savor their encounters.
They weren’t allowed to speak, of course; Lichen had asked that she examine them in silence. But that was probably for the best—if he spoke, he’d only say something stupid. And Dr. Owens seemed the kind of woman who could recognize stupid as soon as she heard it.
No, for Jonathan it was enough just to look at her, to watch her while she checked his temperature, blood pressure, and whatever other crap they wanted to know about him. She had a way about her, he had noticed, a quiet determination that he had never seen in a woman before.
Not that Jonathan had known many women, none that would pay him the time of day, anyway. When you were homeless, other people had a way of pretending you didn’t exist, walking by without looking you in the eye or otherwise acknowledging you. And if their eyes did meet yours, they were always filled with disgust and contempt, the look you might give a rat or a cockroach or a steamy bag of trash.
It was a look Jonathan knew all too well. He had seen it often ever since he and Nick had stolen Jonathan’s stepfather’s Plymouth and driven it to California last year.
It had been a dumb thing to do. Both he and Nick knew this, though neither would admit it.
The drive from Alabama had been a long one, and the car hadn’t lasted the trip. They had hitched the rest of the way and arrived in Los Angeles with only a few bucks between them.
Temporary relief came when Nick lied about their ages and got them work on a construction crew. But the foreman fired them the moment he discovered them sleeping in the very houses they were building. After that, things went bad. People pretending to be friends kept showing up. First the drug pushers. Then the pawnshop owner, the one who gave them a crowbar and dropped them off in the rich neighborhoods. Then the drug pushers again.
Liars, all of them.
In fact, liars were the only type of people Jonathan knew. Even Galen had proven to be one. Jonathan wanted to kick himself for being foolish enough to believe that for once he had found a genuine human being, somebody who wasn’t smiling all sweetly on the outside yet plotting something sinister on the inside.
Nick was the exception, of course. He was no liar. Nick was true. Always had been, even when they were kids growing up in the same trailer park Nick had stuck by Jonathan when no one else had.
And now Dr. Owens was another exception. She wasn’t like Galen at all. She was good, clean. She even made Jonathan forget at times how badly he needed a hit, how badly he wanted to scratch himself, to peel the flesh off where the needles had touched him last. And now she was coming again, right on schedule. He could hear her footsteps approaching.
The door opened. It wasn’t Dr. Owens. It was the big guy, Lichen. He walked directly to Jonathan’s bed and spoke quietly so as not to disturb the others, who were all still asleep. “You will come with me, Jonathan.”
“To hell with you,” said Jonathan. He still feared Lichen, but the fear had diminished. Lichen was only dangerous when he had tranquilizer gun in his hand. He hadn’t struck any of them yet and probably wouldn’t.
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