The Delta Chain

by Ian Edward

  He thought back over the years of meticulous planning, at the intricacy that kept the whole process so secret. The lab teams upstairs knew only what was essential to their own tasks. All staff working with Hunter had been given differing briefs and worked on selected portions of the experiments. They understood there were various end results of medical significance being sought.

  In fact there was only one, and it wasn’t medical.

  Joe Casey, young, brash, wild-eyed and wild haired, had been recruited by Donnelly to run the sub-level. In a previous existence he’d been arrested several times for petty crimes, and for cruelty to animals. He’d run with a rough crowd in a tough section of Manhattan. But Casey wasn’t a street kid or a junkie. He was a uni student, majoring in computer science. A whizz. He was exactly the kind of contradictory personality type that Donnelly sought for the sub-level.

  Casey derived a quiet, sadistic satisfaction from conducting and recording the experiments.

  An observer.

  The progress had exceeded all expectations, with only the computer virus causing delays in recent months.

  Ultimately, the secretive result created for Nexus would filter through to the broader military and commercial worlds, the approval processes fabricated, the history of the project manipulated.

  While Westmeyer and Hunter would eventually achieve fame in scientific circles for their breakthrough, Donnelly wanted recognition for his brilliant military style tactics, used not for armies but for scientists, used not for warfare but for scientific advancement.

  For in the labs and chambers on this hidden level, the most successful results from Hunter’s ‘live’ experiments with mice were being repeated – only not with mice.

  With humans.

  Kate entered Hunter’s lab. She wanted to ask him what he’d heard about the deaths the previous night. And she’d decided it was time to confront him about his relationship with Rhonda Lagan. Two of his assistants were glued to computer screens at the far end of the spacious area. Stephen himself wasn’t in the lab or the adjoining office.

  Kate looked at the glass cages containing the mice. They darted about their prisons, up and down straw covered scaffolding, some of them furiously running around tiny treadmills. She considered for a moment the fact these tiny, unaware creatures were just the latest in…many hundreds of millions, probably, that had helped the advancement of medicine through the centuries. She knew that Stephen’s work involved the genetic engineering of “super” blood cells with disease fighting capabilities. Or at least, that’s what she’d been led to believe.

  Further along in the lab were canisters and tubes housing litres of blood and beyond those, containers of water. Although she’d been in here before, she’d never looked in any detail at the equipment. The water intrigued her. She moved forward. On a metal slab beside the miniature water tank were the bodies of several mice. They were soaked. It looked to Kate as though they’d drowned.

  Drowned?

  She felt a shift inside her, like a gear clicking into place.

  She called to the assistants. ‘Where’s Stephen?’

  They both looked up. One of them replied: ‘Went up to see Dr. Westmeyer.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She loitered for a few moments more. So many questions…she reminded herself not to let anger or anxiety expose her real feelings. Her position as a consultant here gave her the advantage of being able to move around freely.

  Don’t look like you’re snooping, don’t arouse suspicion.

  She would look in on Hunter again later. Her next stop was James Reardon’s office. Although she knew Adam and Brian Markham had left James’ office only minutes before, James wasn’t in there now.

  Kate’s earlier question to Betty had been about A.B.C.S.’ history with the Westmeyer Institute. She’d learned that Reardon first consulted to the Institute five years earlier, long before Kate joined the company, and during Westmeyer’s Florida days. That was when Reardon began to develop DataStorming. Perhaps it was this connection with an Australian company that gave Westmeyer the idea of moving his operation downunder.

  Kate now knew that the croc hunters had previously been in Florida.

  She decided it was a curious twist of irony that James had organised the Landscan III for her, ultimately leading police back to the Institute for which he consulted.

  To the same place beset by the computer “bug” and where Rhonda Lagan had uncovered the discrepancy with the building plans

  How much was chance and how much was something else?

  How much did Stephen know?

  Kate sat down at the terminal James had been using.

  Stephen had been having an affair with Melanie Cail. She was hungry for sensational news to showcase her skills to the city editors. How did any of that fit? Kate seated herself at the computer and called up the data from James’ investigations into tracing the virus. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, retracing the same steps. Was she just filling in time or was she subconsciously searching for something?

  Moments later the numbers appeared on the screen and a suspicion that had been building in her mind was fully realised…and answered.

  The van carrying Erickson and Tannen turned onto the narrow, stony road that led to the rear of the Institute. In the back lay Daniel, still unconscious. Neither of the men had taken any notice of the taxi that had joined the coastal road several blocks back, and which had since diverted onto the front entry road to the Institute. Sitting in the back seat of that taxi, Jean Farrow leaned forward for a better view.

  When her cab had first picked her up, the driver had been apologetic about his need to make a stop on the way. He’d explained that his wife was chronically ill and had asked him to pick up a refill of her medication and drop it off at home for her. He’d already had the prescription filled, he said to Jean, and would she mind if he just popped in briefly to make sure everything was all right?

  Jean had replied that of course she didn’t mind at all. Waiting in the taxi in the suburban street, she’d idly noticed a boy being placed into the back of a van, and thought he seemed a little…odd.

  Now she observed with greater interest this same van, as it turned further along on the highway, on to the track that led to the rear of the Institute.

  As Tannen opened the fence that shielded the rear dock, Erickson scanned the area. Once they were certain there was no one in the vicinity, Erickson punched digits on his cell phone, calling the men stationed on the inside. A minute later the doors to the dock slid open.

  Tannen drove the van down the sloping entry road into the hangar like sub-level below.

  The girl should have fought them, struggled with them, sunk her teeth into their arms – but what was the point? She’d done all that many times before to no avail. They simply held her harder, bruised her, struck her. She was no match for the men’s strength.

  Today she went with them meekly. They pushed her forward through the narrow, winding corridor.

  They wanted her to struggle once ‘it’ began. She understood that now. They wanted to see how long she could survive and the longer, apparently, the better. This excited them for some reason. But she wasn’t going to give them what they wanted this time. She wasn’t going to hold out for as long as possible, fighting to live.

  She’d lost the will. She was simply going to allow herself to be taken out of this world as soon as possible.

  Hank Mendelsohn had a good relationship with the editor who succeeded him on the Chicago Tribune. It was at least six months, however, since he’d spoken to Mark Dole.

  ‘Mark, Hank Mendelsohn. I’m calling from a big coastal town called Northern Rocks, near the city of Brisbane in Queensland, Australia.’

  ‘How about that? Good place for a vacation?’

  ‘Actually, I’m following a story.’

  Dole laughed. ‘Hank, you’ve been retired for…what? Two years or more?’

  ‘Tell me about it. Listen, Mark, you know I’ve done the occasional freelanc
e article…’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Apart from that, you haven’t heard from me.’

  ‘What are you getting at, Hank?’

  ‘You know I wouldn’t waste your time unless it was something serious.’

  ‘Go on…’

  ‘There’s a major international news story about to break here. Several drowning victims, all unidentifiable. A croc hunting gang, operating in the Outback now, but they were in Florida a couple of years back. The whole thing’s tied in with a pre-eminent American research scientist, William Westmeyer-’

  ‘You’ve got my attention. You want to cover this with our backing?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll need a back-up reporter and a couple of news photographers, sourced locally, no time to fly anyone over. I’ve already got the co-operation of a local paper. They’ll supply a desk, phone and computer. And you should contact the subsidiaries – those TV bozos will want in on this as well.’

  ‘Did I remind you you’re retired,’ Dole said with another laugh.

  ‘Funny. Actually, I didn’t go looking for this. It kind of…fell into my lap. Frankly, I could do with a lot less excitement.’

  ‘You know what I think, Hank?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think you’re absolutely loving it. Consider the back-up organised.’

  Adam knew that sometimes, during traumatic moments, people were surprised by extra strength and courage, found within. Then, in the midst of it all, fear could strike, peeling away the layer of strength as though it had never been there, making you wonder what in God’s name you thought you were doing.

  That was the feeling that struck him as the elevator door slid away at the sub-level. His heart palpitating, his breath suddenly shorter, Adam marvelled at the inner reserves he’d mustered over the past few days, and the sense of purpose with which he’d entered the elevator just two floors above.

  Now he felt naked, exposed, in real danger.

  He steeled himself, knowing it was too late to turn back. He had to see this through. Instinctively, needing reassurance, he felt for the smooth steel of the holstered gun beneath his jacket. Standard issue but in fact, rarely ever used.

  He stepped into the corridor outside the lift. Here, he looked on walls of roughly hewn stone, a floor of sturdy tiles. To the left there was an opening into a wider area. To the right the corridor followed a narrow bend. There were doorways further along.

  Adam went to the left. He’d noticed a narrow recess, almost an alcove, where the corridor broadened into a larger chamber. He pushed himself as far as possible into the alcove, and peered out from there into the area beyond.

  Benches against walls, cluttered with hardware, gave the appearance of a lab that had been transported to a medieval cavern. Overhead lights flooded the room, strangely at odds with the subterranean rock of the walls and ceiling.

  A long bench in the middle of the chamber was also stacked with terminals.

  Past this, another work area, this time with smaller benches and scattered chairs. Desktop printers spewed forth reams of figures. There was a sound Adam couldn’t identify, a low hum but with a rough edge to it, like the rattle of pipes. Adam didn’t know what to make of any of it. In its own way it reminded him of certain country police outposts he’d seen a few years ago, older style buildings, only partly renovated, with areas of sophisticated new equipment gradually spreading out, invading all the spaces.

  There was a man seated at the console, his back to Adam. Seeing just part of the man’s head, Adam recognised him as a technician he’d seen around the Institute. He didn’t know who he was and he hadn’t known what section he’d worked in. Now he knew, just as he knew that the PC’s brought to Rhonda and Kate for various repairs, had been from down here.

  And then he saw Donnelly, pacing in and out of view.

  ‘Is she ready?’ Donnelly asked.

  ‘Prepped and ready to go.’

  Beyond this console, the lab opened up further into an oval shaped end-wall. A web of tubes and wires ran to a large instrument panel fitted to the side of an eight by 10-metre double-glassed tank.

  The tank was empty.

  Adam heard footsteps and a whimpering sound. Two men entered the far end of the chamber from another opening, beyond Adam’s view. Between them they pushed along a girl of no more than eighteen. She was cowering and teary eyed. And naked.

  ‘The final phase, gentlemen,’ Donnelly announced with a harsh edge.

  It was one of the oldest clichés in the policing business: the criminal always returns to the scene of the crime. Despite the advances in investigative methods, Arthur Kirby had always believed in the gut instincts that come with experience. From the moment he’d rolled out of bed that morning and driven across the bridge into town, his gut had been throwing up the old cliché.

  As the senior sergeant in charge, Kirby liked to keep close to the beat of the town. Once a week he partnered one of his constables on a regular patrol. He’d chosen this morning to ride with Harrison. Heading over the bridge, his gaze was drawn to the river. ‘I’m intrigued by this boy seen diving into the river after being chased by the men from that van. Since then, no sign of those men or the van, which was apparently able to be rolled back onto its wheels and driven away.’

  ‘Screwy,’ Harrison agreed. He hated patrols on days like this one: a grim sky, lightning, an impending storm. ‘The rego number was fake and there’s nothing else to go on.’

  Kirby had brought binoculars and he trained them, from the elevated stretch of road, down on the winding river beneath. The annoying thing was that the road veered gradually away from the line of the waterway.

  ‘Expecting to see anything down there?’ Harrison wondered.

  ‘Don’t know. Gut’s telling me to look.’

  ‘Oh – that.’ Harrison grinned.

  ‘Let’s go down, on foot, check out the usual fishing holes.’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  Kirby detected his constable’s amused indifference. He grinned back, a rare thing for Kirby, tapping his right index finger against his temple. ‘Intuition. Probably going to make me look like an old fool.’

  It didn’t. A brief walk down to the river’s edge and they came across Hughie Jones. Kirby was acquainted with the elderly fisherman.

  ‘What’re you doing down here?’ Hughie grinned. ‘Spot of fishing while you’re on duty, or do you fellows patrol the fishing holes now?’

  ‘Maybe we should do a bit of both,’ Kirby quipped, which Harrison also found uncharacteristic. But then, he thought, his sergeant was often out-of-character when he took these patrol rides with his constables. Go figure. ‘Seen any friendly strangers roaming the banks the last day or so?’ Kirby asked.

  ‘You must have that ESP thing going on,’ Hughie replied, showing surprise. ‘Couple of blokes wandered by, an hour or so ago. Friendly enough, but hadn’t seen them before.’

  ‘They say much?’

  ‘Oh well…yeah, asked about some kid they reckon was swimming in the river the other day.’

  Kirby and Harrison exchanged glances. ‘You point them in the direction of anyone who might’ve been able to help them?’ Kirby asked.

  ‘Only ‘ol Costas Yannous or young Joey Cail. You’re not going tell me those fellows are escaped convicts or something?’

  Kirby shot him an enigmatic glance. ‘Or something,’ was all he offered in reply.

  CHAPTER SIXTY TWO

  Adam drew his pistol, gripping it tightly as he watched.

  The naked girl had been pushed into the tank through a small door in the side. Then the technician programmed the various controls. There was the whirring sound of machinery grinding into action.

  Adam’s eyes were drawn to the overhead tubes that ran to the glass chamber. A sound like rushing water came from the tubes. The echo of rattling, humming pipes was louder now. Adam realised there was a system of pipes somewhere, running through these caverns, drawing water either from the general water supply, or
maybe from the ocean, and sending it through the tubes into this tank. With the girl locked inside it.

  ‘Shouldn’t Hunter be here for the final run?’ Casey asked.

  ‘Hunter’s like Westmeyer. A wimp. Doesn’t want to dirty his precious little hands. Just wants the glory.’

  ‘Yeah, okay.’ The technician waved off the comments, he’d heard them all before.

  The water gushed into the chamber. At first the girl simply stood back against the glass wall, accepting her fate. But the water filled rapidly and as it hit the half way mark she looked pleadingly through the glass at her tormentors. Then she clenched her fists and began to bang them against the glass with increasing force. Although her voice couldn’t be heard her screaming mouth formed an elongated “Noooo…”

  Adam had seen enough. The last few seconds had been worth more than hundreds of pages of witness reports, more than hours of anyone’s explanations. Whatever experimental research was being conducted above on animals was being repeated down here. With people. Defenceless young kids.

  Thoughts flashed through his mind about the girl found washed in by the storm just over a week before. Brian’s autopsy results: clenched fists, bruised knuckles; the absence of trace elements of weed or rock; the naked body, stripped of all I.D.

  And now another one sharing the same fate. Not.

  Adam stepped out from the space between the walls and took aim with his pistol. ‘Turn the water off, Donnelly!’

  Casey spun about in his seat, visibly shaken. Donnelly turned slowly, face impassive. ‘Detective Sergeant Bennett. Welcome to the Institute sub-level.’

  Horror chamber more like it, Adam thought. ‘Turn the water off now!’

  The two men who’d placed the girl in the tank had also turned. Neither spoke. They looked on with a certain detachment. They were strangers here too, Adam realised. Members of the croc gang. Although they were motionless, Adam sensed they were ready to pounce, and he felt a pang of insecurity. He was outnumbered.