“Maybe they got a call or something,” said Peeps, who was sitting in the passenger seat. “Maybe someone phoned in a lead or a clue or something.”
Riggs shook his head. “I checked the phone records. I didn’t see anything unusual.” Besides, they would have told me if they had found a lead.”
Riggs rubbed his hand through his five o’clock shadow. Every part of him felt tired, especially his mind. For two days he had tried to find answers and for two days he had come up empty. First there was Frank and Carter, two agents who had stepped off the face of the earth without so much as a goodbye. Then there were the Healers. Jonathan Fox, who Riggs had hoped would prove to be a break in the case, turned out to be a dead end. Agents had combed every inch of roadside near where the truck had hit the boy and found nothing. No virus. No blood. Nothing. It was as if the kid had fallen out of the sky, a notion that Riggs gave more than a cursory consideration. And the deputy, the one and only witness they had in the whole ordeal, had apparently left town the morning after the accident to tend to a dying relative somewhere out of state. All attempts to contact the man had proved fruitless.
So here they were, going up to Agoura Hills yet again, this time to speak to the deputy’s supervisor in person. They pulled into the parking lot of the Sheriff’s Station and made their way inside. A heavyset woman in a deputy’s uniform greeted them at the front desk.
“Help you, gentlemen?”
Riggs showed her his badge. “Agent Riggs of the Biohazard Agency. This is Agent Waters. We’d like to speak to Lieutenant Yontz, please.”
She pointed them to an office across the room and picked up the phone. “I’ll tell him you’re coming.”
Riggs thanked her, and they crossed to Yontz’s office.
Leroy Yontz hung up his phone and welcomed them inside, inviting them to have a seat opposite his desk and offering them coffee, the latter of which they politely refused. Yontz was a slender man in his forties with a receding hairline and a gold-rimmed pair of bifocals.
“You boys have had a hard time with this one,” Yontz said. “Some cases you got to give up on. That’s my policy. Chase the tough ones too long, and you burn yourself out.”
“I’m afraid that’s not an option at this point,” said Riggs.
Yontz shrugged. “Well, I told you everything I know over the phone, which isn’t much. This was Deputy Dixon’s thing. I don’t know that I can be of much more help to you.”
“Any word from Dixon?”
Yontz shook his head. “I left messages on his cell phone, but I haven’t heard back from him. Some relative dying or something. I hope he knows this counts against his vacation time.”
“What about the truck driver?”
“I put in a call with the trucking company. Nasty-ass lawyer called me back, said if I wanted to talk to his client, I’d have to arrange a hearing. Said no charges were made against the man; it was an accident pure and simple. Anybody could see that.” Yontz put his feet up on his desk and picked at his teeth with a toothpick. “The world would be a happier place if they let us take a shot at lawyers every now and then. Nothing fatal, of course, just wing ’em.”
“Could you take us to the scene of the accident?” said Riggs. “We’d like to have a look around.”
Yontz put his feet down and tried not to look annoyed. “I already took your boys out there. They poked in the grass for a few hours and didn’t find anything. Don’t see how our going out there again is going to change that.”
Riggs stood up and Peeps followed.
“Just a few minutes of your time, Lieutenant,” said Riggs. “We’ll be most grateful.”
Yontz mumbled something under his breath and grabbed his hat.
Ten minutes later they arrived at the accident scene. Yontz parked his cruiser on the side of the road, and Riggs pulled his sedan in behind him. They got out and looked around. In the daylight, this stretch of road looked like all the miles of rural highway in this area. Had Yontz not escorted them, Riggs wasn’t sure he could have found the spot.
He looked down at the clearing and the forest beyond.
“What’s beyond those trees?” Riggs asked.
“More trees,” said Yontz. “Not many residences or commercial properties up here anymore.”
Anymore? “Were there ever any commercial facilities up here, any that have been abandoned?”
Yontz rubbed his chin and thought a moment. “Well, there’s the old Happy Mountain Rest Home.” He pointed northeast. “About two miles up that way. That place has been empty for years.”
Riggs snapped his fingers at Peeps. “Notify Hernandez. I want the assault team in a helicopter flying in this direction in two minutes.”
Frank found a narrow trail not far below the tree line and decided to take it. It would lead them to civilization much faster than an aimless hike through the woods. Plus, a trail would be safer; they wouldn’t have to worry about unexpected holes or gullies or invading an unfriendly animal’s den. And, with fewer obstacles to watch out for, they could move faster. The morning air was cold, but the quick pace Frank had adopted was warming them. Hal had decided to wear his suit coat after all, and everyone moved with surprising ease.
Frank stepped over a log in the path and marveled. He had had surgery a little over forty-eight hours ago, and now he felt as nimble and light as ever. Wyatt was the only one who seemed to being having a bit of a struggle. He was having to take two steps for every one of Frank’s. And although he was keeping up for the time being, Frank knew it wouldn’t last. The kid would tire. He couldn’t keep this pace up forever.
“I should look at your arm,” Monica said, coming in step beside Frank.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” Frank said, still holding the arm stiff at his side. “Let’s put some more distance behind us.”
“We’ve gone almost three miles,” Monica said. “We can stop long enough for me to look at it. You’re no good to us if you bleed to death.”
“She’s right, Frank,” said Byron. “Let her look at it. She’s a doctor.”
I’m a doctor myself, Frank wanted to point out. But he knew it was pointless to argue. They were right. Bleeding wounds needed immediate attention. Plus, his blood was contaminated. Every drop that dripped to the ground was like a seed of virus.
Frank stopped suddenly. “Wait a minute.” How could he be so stupid? He must be losing his mind. “You can’t look at this wound. You shouldn’t be near it. I might infect you.”
“It’s all right,” said Monica.
“No, it isn’t. You don’t know how virulent this is. You can’t risk my blood touching you.”
“I’m immune,” she said. “Wyatt and me both. Galen inoculated us when we he took us. He knew I’d be handing the virus, and he didn’t want Wyatt becoming infected either. Let’s not forget that that I’ve had my hands inside you. Your blood has been all over me. If I could be infected, I’d have been dead a long time ago.”
Frank hesitated a moment, then gave in, nodding for her to proceed.
She helped him out of the cape and suit coat. Frank was surprised that it didn’t hurt him nearly as much to move his arm now. He had thought it would be a painful ordeal to get undressed and had postponed the act partially for that reason. Yet now there was no pain. Only blood. And plenty of it. The sleeve of his white shirt was red from the elbow down.
The others gathered around him. “Gross,” Dolores said.
“You really cut it bad,” said Nick.
Frank thought so, too, and it startled him to see so much of his own blood; he hadn’t realized the cut was so deep.
“Sit down,” Monica said, opening the kit of medical supplies she had taken from the storage room and pointing him to a large rock by the trail.
Frank sat and the others surrounded him. Wyatt pushed his way to the front and stared at the red sleeve. “Does it hurt?” he asked.
“No,” said Frank, not looking at it. “Not really. I feel fine. Fit as a fiddle.”
>
Monica, who was putting on rubber gloves, stopped suddenly and looked at him. “What did you say?
“I said I was fine. Fit as a fiddle.”
“Why did you say it that way? Do you always say that?”
Frank wrinkled his brow. “It’s just an expression.”
Monica noticed all eyes on her. Even Wyatt looked concerned. She forced a smile and continued donning her gloves. “I’m sorry. It’s just something Galen said to me once.”
“Galen?” said Nick.
“When we first met. It’s not important.”
“Hell, yes, it’s important,” said Nick. “Maybe that chip thing is on already.”
Frank shook his head. “I told you. It’s just an expression. My grandfather used to say it.”
Nick still looked skeptical.
“A dead old man is not controlling my speech.” He turned to Monica. “Let’s get this over with.”
Moving quickly, Monica cut off the bottom half of the sleeve and exposed the wound, which was positioned above the elbow on the back of the upper arm. Instead of looking at it, Frank watched everyone else’s reaction. Nick and Hal both winced at first, but then their faces turned to wonder.
“Would you look at that?” Hal said with a whistle.
“Looks healed already,” said Nick.
Frank turned the arm over and saw that, sure enough, the wound had already sealed itself; a three-inch-long scar had formed across the muscle and stopped the flow of blood completely. It was still bright red, swollen, and sensitive to the touch, but it was not the gaping wound it must have been minutes before.
Monica wet some gauze with alcohol and cleaned the dried blood away.
“It’s true, then,” said Byron. “Everything you said about this virus. The rapid healing, everything.”
Hal clapped his hands together loudly. “I’ll be damned. The cut just up and healed itself like that.”
“How does it feel?” said Monica.
Frank bent his arm. “A little tight, but other than that, fine.”
“I should wrap it just in case.” She ripped open a packet of bandaging and got to work.
Hal squatted down beside her as she wrapped the arm. “Now, you’re a doctor, right? How long should it take a cut like that to heal, you think? Under normal circumstances, I mean.”
“Difficult to say. There’s no way of knowing how deep the gash was. But considering how much blood he lost, plus the fact that he cut through the triceps here, I’d say at least a few weeks. Not to mention plenty of stitches.”
Hal nodded vigorously, pleased by her response. “You hear that?” he said, looking back at the others. “A few weeks. A cut like that normally takes weeks.” He laughed. “And our man Frank here did it in less than ten minutes.” He patted Frank on the knee as if he had done something incredibly brave.
“I don’t understand,” Wyatt said.
Hal was all too eager to explain. “You saw how his arm smashed through that lamp, right? Bam! Glass everywhere.”
Wyatt nodded.
“Well, the glass cut through him, see? Deep. To the bone, maybe.”
“Don’t be so graphic,” Dolores said, “he’s just a boy.”
“A boy who asked a question, dipstick. So cork it.” He turned back to Wyatt, his face pleasant again. “So he cuts himself deep, right? But now look at it.” He pointed to the wound, even though it was already covered with bandages. “It’s healed and ready to go. Like magic.”
Frank got to his feet. “We’ve stopped long enough.”
Monica gathered her bag. “I should take your staples out while we’re stopped,” she said. “They’ve been in long enough. Everyone else had theirs removed before you woke up.”
Frank felt the line of staples down his chest. “It can wait. We’ll have time for it later.”
She didn’t object. “Come on, Wyatt,” she said, taking his hand.
Frank put the suit coat back on and threw the cape over his shoulder, then stuffed the bloody sleeve Monica had cut away into his pocket.
They got moving again, quickly returning to their old pace. Frank felt invigorated. He knew he should be winded after having tackled three miles, but each breath came to him easily and calmly, as if he had just awoken from a deep rest.
Wyatt trotted up beside him, not having such an easy time with it. His hair was wet with sweat, and his breaths were short and labored. “What’s your name?” he said.
“Frank.”
“It’s only fair if I know your name since you already know mine.”
“I suppose.”
Wyatt avoided a rock in the trail. “Are you really a policeman?”
“Not really, no.”
“Didn’t think so. So what are you?”
“A virologist. I study viruses.”
“Like a doctor?”
“Yes, like a doctor.”
“Mom’s a thoracic surgeon. That means she has to cut people’s chests open.”
“Yes, I know. All too well.” He allowed himself a glance back to see if Monica was listening. She wasn’t. She was near the back, struggling more than anyone to keep up. Wyatt had found his second wind, but Monica hadn’t been so lucky.
“My dad’s a doctor, too,” said Wyatt. “An orthopedic surgeon. That means a bone doctor.”
“Well, if I break my arm, I know who to call.”
“I only see him every other weekend, though,” said Wyatt. “He and my mom got a divorce.”
That caught Frank off guard. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Wyatt shrugged. “My dad had a girlfriend while he and my mom were still together.”
Frank didn’t know what to say to that one. This was getting uncomfortable.
“But I don’t think I’m supposed to know that, since my mom and dad don’t talk about it with me.”
Kids were amazing, thought Frank. No guile. They just say it like it is, even to a total stranger.
But Frank knew he wasn’t a stranger to Wyatt. Not anymore. In the hour or so since their meeting, Frank had somehow graduated to something else in the kid’s eyes. Something bigger. Now Wyatt was sticking close to him, doing everything Frank did, like hopping over a log or avoiding a root, even mimicking his walk. What was it? Respect, maybe? A sense of protection, of safety? The kid had undergone quite an ordeal in the past week, something that a lot of kids might never recover from. And now here was a man who could shoot the bad guys with a tranquilizer gun and lead them all charging through the woods toward safety. No, Frank was something different to Wyatt now. And for the time being, Frank didn’t mind.
Victor Owens drove north on the Pacific Coast Highway, his cell phone to his ear. After the appropriate number of rings a familiar voice said, “Hi. This is Dr. Monica Owens. I’m sorry I can’t take your call right now. I’m either with a patient or on the other line. If this is an emergency—” Victor slammed his cell phone closed and tossed it into the passenger seat. It wasn’t like Monica to neglect his messages. And over the past few days, he had left plenty. Yes, she was an ex-wife who believed she had plenty of reasons to hold a grudge, but that wasn’t Monica’s style, never had been. If Victor left a message, Monica called him back—maybe not right away; maybe she’d let him sweat it out for a day or so. But never longer than that. And now Wyatt’s school had called Victor asking him if everything was all right with Wyatt, explaining that the boy hadn’t reported to class in over a week and that repeated calls to Wyatt’s mother had gone unanswered.
Victor wasn’t sure if he should be angry or frightened. It wasn’t like Monica to pack up and take Wyatt on a vacation without first consulting Victor. They might be divorced and might not to see eye to eye on a lot of parental issues, but one thing they had agreed on was open communication—well, open concerning all things relating to Wyatt, anyway. The other aspects of their lives were their own business. Not that Victor suspected Monica of having much of a life outside of her career. She hadn’t had much of a life when they were married
, for the same reason.
Victor turned north on Cahuenga and sped up the hill into Pacific Palisades. What did he have left to do, then, but to go and see for himself if Monica was home? Maybe she had left a note. Maybe someone had broken in and . . . Victor put the thought out of his mind. They weren’t harmed. Monica was too smart. And Victor had spent too much on that security system when they were married to let anything bad happen without raising an alarm.
The driveway was empty. Monica’s SUV wasn’t there. Victor wasn’t sure whether to take that as a good sign or a bad one.
He parked his Mercedes at the curb, got out, and fished through his keychain for the key to the front door. To play it safe, he rang the doorbell first and was surprised when Rosa answered it almost immediately, a broom in her hand.
“Rosa.”
“Buenas tardes, Mr. Owens.” She had a peculiar smile across her face that unsettled Victor.
“Where’s Monica?”
“Dr. Owens is not here,” she said, as placidly as if she were getting into a warm jacuzzi.
“Well, where is she? I’ve left her half a dozen messages, and she hasn’t called me back. I’ve called the clinic. No one there has seen her either.”
“Dr. Owens is not here,” Rosa said again.
Victor sighed irritably. Rosa’s poor grasp of English was intolerable. All she could respond to were simple, curt sentences. She probably didn’t even understand half of what he was saying.
He spoke slower. “Where’s Wyatt? Is he with Monica?”
Rosa considered this a long moment.
Victor was getting frustrated. She didn’t understand. “With, with,” he said with more urgency. “Do you understand the word with? Like, chili con carne. Monica con Wyatt?” He pointed two index fingers upward and then brought them together. Improvised sign language. “With. Monica with Wyatt?”
Rosa stared at him, still smiling—not amused just . . . smiling. “Dr. Owens is not here.”
Invasive Procedures Page 24
