The Faithful

by S. M. Freedman

  Just to add to the challenge, the ECU allowed only five submissions per month. Josh often had to sit on DNA samples for several months before he was able to submit them.

  To date, he’d managed to collect DNA samples for almost half of the children who had gone missing prior to implementation of the NMPDD.

  Josh turned on 15th Street and jogged along the south lawn of the White House. He crossed Pennsylvania Avenue and continued past the oval drive of the Ellipse. It was a large grassy area that had been used as a trash dump and a slaughterhouse, and, for a time during the Civil War, it had even housed soldiers. Currently the Ellipse was the location of choice for everything from protest demonstrations to rock concerts.

  At Constitution Avenue he turned west, jogging alongside the greenery of Constitution Gardens. He still had forty minutes until his meeting with Connie, so he cut down to the Reflecting Pool and ran the length of it between the Lincoln and World War II Memorials. He entertained himself by watching the camera-wielding tourists, picnickers, and locals out for some lunch-hour exercise.

  On his second round he slowed to a brisk walk, stretched, and plunked down on the grass beside the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.

  Connie arrived five minutes later, tottering along the grass in snakeskin heels. She was dressed like an eighties heavy-metal groupie, in an acid-washed denim miniskirt and skintight Mötley Crüe T-shirt, her blond hair teased into a hair-sprayed cloud Josh just knew would feel crunchy.

  He tried not to goggle at her, wondering what on earth her coworkers thought. He was used to the strict dress protocol of the FBI, where even the women dressed in boxy suits.

  Smiling, she dropped a takeout bag onto his lap. “Well, my oh my. There’s nothing sexier than a man all sweaty and hopped up on endorphins. Howdy, Agent Metcalf.”

  Her lipstick was bright purple, and the diamond in her incisor twinkled in the sunlight. She sank down beside him on the grass, her skirt sliding up her generous thighs toward her hip bones. He caught himself staring and hastily averted his gaze, only to see her smiling devilishly at him.

  “Hello, Ms. Fisher. It’s nice to see you again.”

  “Come on, now, only my kids’ teachers call me that. You can call me Connie.” She had changed her nail polish to match her lipstick.

  Desperate for a change of focus, he turned to the paper bag she had dropped into his lap. It was radiating warmth onto his legs.

  “Thanks for lunch. So, what did you bring us?” Unrolling the top, he peered in and groaned.

  “What’s the matter?” Connie asked with feigned innocence. “Don’t you like corn dogs?”

  Josh got back to the office at 1:30 and tucked the envelope Connie had given him into a locking file cabinet. He grabbed his suit and toiletry kit, locked the office door behind him, and headed for the nearest shower, which was adjacent to one of the gym facilities on the third floor.

  Back in his office fifteen minutes later, he pulled out the envelope and grabbed a bottle of water from the minifridge. He ripped open the envelope and pulled out the single piece of paper.

  Connie had come up with the names of four of the PSST testing agents, and noted the name of Mr. Macey’s personal assistant as well.

  The information had been gathered from Mr. Macey’s assistant, a man on the prowl after a recent bitter divorce. She had promised to get more, explaining slyly that they had made after-hours plans. She was clearly enjoying playing secret agent, and Josh reminded her to be discreet.

  “Don’t worry. Sumner Macey is out sick right now. He’ll never know I’ve been poking my nose into his business.” She seemed confident, and he decided it was worth the risk. He would risk quite a bit to get his hands on one of those PSST tests.

  In the meantime, he turned his attention to the information she had given him. He ran each of the names through NCIC, the National Crime Information Center. There were no outstanding warrants and no criminal records. None of them were suspected terrorists, sex offenders, foreign fugitives, or missing persons. He grunted in frustration and rubbed his neck, taking a giant gulp of water.

  He logged onto the newest tool at his disposal, the Data Integration and Visualization System. The DIVS was a new database search tool with the ultimate goal of gathering data from different sources and compiling it in one place. There were still plenty of kinks to be worked out, but it would eventually provide the ability to search hundreds of millions of documents gathered from different sources, saving agents time, resources, and plenty of gray hairs.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Josh muttered, fingers clacking over the keyboard. There was nothing. Not even a speeding ticket. No bad credit. Nothing.

  This would require legwork. Josh decided to start with Sumner Macey. He made note of his address in Temple Hills, grabbed his suit jacket off the back of the chair, and left the office. It was time to pay some of Mr. Macey’s neighbors a friendly visit.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “What is it, Evelyn?” Executive Administrative Director Dean Forster barked into the phone, running a sweaty hand over the stubble on the top of his head. Large wet patches had seeped through the armpits of his creased white dress shirt, and the ugly pink tie his wife had given him for his last birthday was hanging like a limp penis over the edge of the file cabinet.

  He was having a bad day. A very bad day indeed.

  First, the director, Roger Whitehorne, had raked him over the coals for that Abousamra mess, blaming Dean for those incompetent idiots who had lost Abousamra just before he killed that family in Silver Spring.

  Then that dumb-ass jury had failed to indict Xian Lim in that human trafficking operation. The evil bastard was going to walk, flushing thousands of man-hours down the toilet. They would have to start all over again.

  And for the icing on the cake, he was in the midst of staff evaluations, under orders to cut back on much-needed agents due to budgetary concerns. These days, all the money was being funneled into the Counterterrorism Division, and where the money went, the agents had to follow. This meant more cuts to the already-taxed Criminal Investigations Division, and he was seething as he flipped through the personnel files.

  “Agent Spring is here to see you. He says it’s important.”

  Oh, hell. Agent Lewis Spring’s presence could mean only one thing.

  “All right,” he grumbled. “Send him in.”

  Agent Spring was young, still brimming with the internal fire that made him choose the FBI as a career. His brown hair was cut with military precision, his clothes so neatly pressed it was hard to imagine a drop of sweat daring to make its way onto the pristine fabric. He was green, eager, and a quintessential rule follower, which was why Dean had chosen him for the task. He was also an IT genius.

  Agent Spring was honored to the point of apoplexy to receive direct orders from the executive administrative director. He never paused to question the validity of Dean’s request.

  “I take it you have some news for me, Agent Spring?”

  “Yes, sir. I set up the net exactly as we discussed. It’s been operational for eight months now, and I test it once a week to make sure it’s working.”

  “Yes, yes.” Dean Forster waved a hand in the universal signal for “hurry it up, already.” “And?”

  “Well, it’s never picked up a single hit. But today it started pinging all over the place. I thought maybe something had gone wrong with the programming, but I double-checked everything and it’s all good.”

  “Agent Metcalf?”

  “Yes, sir.” Agent Spring bobbed his head excitedly. “He’s been searching both the NCIC and DIVS today, and six of the names you gave me pinged.”

  “I’m sorry, did you say six?”

  “Yes, sir. Here’s a printout.” Agent Spring pulled a folded sheet out of his breast pocket and handed it over.

  Although his legs were trembling, Dean forced himself to st
and. As calmly as he could, he shook Agent Spring’s hand. He ignored the quick grimace of distaste that flitted across the young agent’s face at the feel of his sweaty palm.

  “Good job, Agent Spring. Let me know if you get any more pings.” Agent Spring left smiling, and Dean sat down behind his desk and unfolded the piece of paper.

  Jessica Halliwell

  Rupert Vargas

  John Easton

  Penelope Divisario

  Mary-Ellen Litchfield

  Sumner Macey

  “Shit.” He picked up the phone. “Evelyn, get Deputy Director Warner for me.”

  As he waited to be connected to the Office of Congressional Affairs, he sorted through the pile of staff folders on his desk until he found Agent Spring’s file. He pushed it to the side of his desk.

  Agent Spring was about to receive a transfer to the Counterterrorism Division, along with a nice jump up the pay scale.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The cowgirl was sitting at the same table at the Peaks Cafe in the Cheyenne Regional Airport, newspaper propped in front of her as she sipped from a takeout coffee cup.

  Well, shit. Sumner blinked, unnerved.

  If not for the fact that she was wearing different clothes—snug jeans and a tight black T-shirt—he would have wondered if she’d ever left.

  Although he’d been warned he would be watched, the notion of having to ignore her bumbling surveillance was daunting.

  And weren’t they a bunch of psychics? Was having this chick follow him around like a well-trained puppy really the best they could do?

  Quickening his pace, he shook off his annoyance. There were way more important things to worry about. Joining the long lineup at the ticket counter, he obediently shuffled forward, chewing on his lip as he worried the problem.

  What the hell was he going to do?

  Sumner had been turning this over in his mind since the moment the gates of The Ranch miraculously opened, allowing him to live another day. The brief exultation that flooded through him at this unexpected gift of life was quickly doused by the stark reality of the situation.

  Walk the straight path or die.

  It should have been a pretty simple choice, really. And technically, it wasn’t a hard job to do. A few minutes at the computer and all the information would be transferred to the right people. Agents around the country would swarm upon unsuspecting children, ripping them from their families.

  It was a job he had been doing for over a decade, albeit in blissful ignorance for most of that time. But that all changed six months ago, when the note in his mailbox started his awakening.

  Since then, he’d learned some tricks to try to quell his conscience. He’d drink until he forgot he had just pointed his electronic finger and destroyed another life, filling the empty hours of the night with booze and whatever Western was on TV.

  But now he was stone-cold sober. And he couldn’t deny his culpability anymore.

  From the safety of his office, just how many kids had he kidnapped? How much heartache had he caused? How many families had he destroyed?

  Anguish twisted a knot in his gut. He couldn’t ignore the truth any longer. He knew what happened to the kids he selected, so how could he continue? And yet, if Day Zero was approaching, how could he not?

  In the end of days, could an evil act be turned on its head? Could it become the honorable thing to do? If gathering them in meant saving their lives, he thought it was possible. How ironic to continue to do the wrong thing, but this time for the right reasons.

  He reached the front of the line and bought his tickets. Cheyenne to Denver to Washington, DC. As he passed the cowgirl, his frustration boiled over, and he blasted her.

  “Ora, go back to your girlfriend. And unless you’re willing to let me watch, stay the hell away from me. Tell the old bastard I’ll follow the straight path.”

  She gave no response save the irritated flutter of her newspaper, and he continued past her to his gate.

  The next time he saw her was during his layover at Denver International Airport. He had two hours to kill until boarding. He grabbed a Denver Post and a beer and settled into a deep booth at the Boulder Beer Tap House. To hell with not drinking.

  When she sat down across the table from him, he was engrossed in an opinion piece about the Denver Broncos’ aging quarterback. He looked up, startled. She was smiling and casually sipping beer from a bottle.

  From a distance, she had seemed Barbie-doll perfect, but up close her bottom teeth were crooked and her upper lip was plumper than the bottom one, making her mouth into a bow. Her nose was a bit too big for her face and covered in freckles, and her blue eyes were wide-set and slanted down at the outer edge. She was young and perky and he did his best not to stare at her cleavage.

  “Are you sure you’re old enough to be drinking that?” he managed, and she rolled her eyes in response.

  “Do you want to see my ID?”

  Leaning back in his chair, he took a sip of beer as he appraised her. “What do you want?”

  “Are you really going to continue to be one of their sheep?”

  Taken aback by her directness and the obvious disdain in her voice, he shrugged noncommittally. “I said I would follow the straight path.”

  “The one that’s paved with ill intentions?” She was probing at his mind, looking for the key to unlock the dead bolt and let herself in. He clamped down, staring back at her stubbornly.

  “You’re pretty strong. But I’m stronger,” she said.

  “Oh really?”

  Tipping her head back, she drained the bottle. Against his will, his gaze traced the length of her neck. Down and down.

  “Yup. You’ll see.”

  “You’re pretty confident for someone so newly out of diapers,” he said gruffly.

  She laughed, flipping her blond hair over her shoulder. “Go on, try to read me,” she dared.

  Not one to resist a challenge, he set down his glass and focused on her. She was closed. Completely closed, impossible to read. He tried nudging at her from one direction, and then another. While beads of sweat popped out on his forehead she sat there smiling, completely at ease. With a loud exhale he gave up and leaned back against the chair.

  “Impressive,” he admitted.

  “That’s not the half of it.” She waved a hand in casual dismissal.

  “At least you’re modest about it.”

  They paused while the waiter slapped a basket of fries down in front of him, along with a couple of napkins. She wiggled her empty bottle, indicating she wanted another, and then eyed his fries.

  “Ooh, those look good. Mind if I share? I’m starved.”

  The basket slid across the table as if magnetized and stopped right in front of her. She popped a fry into her mouth and chewed vigorously.

  “Do you like ketchup?” she asked, and before he could answer the bottle lifted off the table. It hung suspended in the air in front of his nose. The cap turned once, twice, three times, and fell to the table with a clatter. The bottle upturned and a glob of red sauce plopped onto the fries.

  He grabbed the bottle and twisted the cap back on. “I don’t like ketchup, and I don’t like show-offs.”

  Before he could pull the basket away, she snatched a handful of fries and stuffed them into her mouth, smiling cheekily at him.

  “Why didn’t they ship you off to The Command with the rest of the Telekinetics?”

  “Because I’m one of the Chosen. Duh.”

  Her teenage attitude was tiresome, but that did explain her strength. And speaking of which . . .

  “So you allowed me to read you in Cheyenne?”

  “Of course. If I didn’t want you to see me, you wouldn’t have.” She wiped the grease off her fingers and slid an e-ticket across the table to him. “That’s for you.”

  He gl
anced down. It was a Southwest flight to Houston, leaving in an hour and a half.

  “What’s in Houston?”

  “Maybe nothing. Maybe a chance to redeem yourself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “‘Just how many kids have I kidnapped?’” she imitated in an insulting falsetto. “‘How much heartache have I caused? How many families have I destroyed?’”

  “Okay, I get it.”

  “You have a choice to make, Summoner of Spirits. Fly back to DC and continue to walk the straight path, or fly to Houston and fight back.”

  “And what makes you think I’d go with you?”

  “This,” she said, and shoved an envelope toward him. Apparently she had fished his letter out of the UPS drop box. He picked it up and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

  “They’ll know if I go to Houston. I’ll be dead within hours.”

  She shook her head. “I can shield you from them. They won’t know where you are, just that you’re not in DC.”

  His stomach clenched with anxiety. “But . . .”

  “There’s no ‘but.’ It’s time to choose. Are you going to be an I Fidele patsy and contribute to the destruction of the world, or are you going to go down with your guns blazing? It’s your choice, Sumner. And for the first time in your sorry life, you actually have the freedom to choose. We won’t force you. We’re not like them.”

  “We?”

  She nodded. “Come see for yourself.”

  “Wait!” he said as she stood up. “Why should I trust you? Who are you?”

  Her smile was tight, and it didn’t reach her eyes. “Even I Fidele has black sheep. Kids who will never meet their parents’ expectations.” Placing her empty beer bottle on the table, she said, “I hope to see you again.”

  She left him in the Boulder Beer Tap House with trembling hands and a stomach that churned with anxiety.