by Sue Duff
“What’s the harm?” Tara said.
“You’d bring home a baby rattlesnake if it looked parched,” Mara chided. “And you two can’t keep your damsel-in-distress crap out of this.” She shook her head. “I swear, sometimes I’m the only sane person in this group.”
“I supposed you’d rather just shoot her,” Ian said.
“You have to admit, there’s sweet closure to that.”
{33}
The next morning, Ian’s testy mood with the facility tour assignment morphed into indifference on the drive to QualSton Research. The guard at the gate found Fade to Black Productions on the list for approved entry, and they were directed to the Administration complex.
Lagging behind the others, Ian absorbed the surroundings as the group entered the building. He slipped into the restroom after passing security check and shyfted inside their car in the parking lot to retrieve the girls’ guns.
The Pur Weir facility proved to be impressive with its multiple buildings and towering architecture. Back home, the mansion was crafted in old-world charm, but the QualSton lobby portrayed nature with a modern twist. Ian doubted that the old dinosaurs of the Syndrion had a hand in the design. So well-placed were the windows, the interior became an extension of the outdoors, complete with a gurgling brook separating the waiting area into pockets of privacy.
Patrick approached the receptionist while Mara and Tara headed to the perimeters to channel with Ian. Their trained eyes scanned the surroundings, pausing at exits and entrances. Each person in the lobby caught their scrutiny, but Ian only saw business types in suits and briefcases. Those within their triangular field offered benign thoughts that revealed nothing significant. He quickly dismissed them, unless they could un-latch their cases and pull out semiautomatics faster than Mara and Tara could draw their own well-concealed weapons.
Ian thought not.
He sat on a curved hardwood chair and hid behind a magazine he had no interest in reading. Patrick earned the receptionist’s attention. “We’re from Fade to Black Productions. We have an appointment with Dr. Rulin Orr.”
Patrick greeted everyone that morning as if it was any other day and by all accounts, appeared relaxed. Ian knew better. The five cups of caffeine at breakfast instead of Patrick’s usual two, coupled with his sweaty palms brushed against his slacks every few seconds, had Ian on the alert.
He didn’t have the heart to tell Patrick that the Syndrion would always consider him an outsider, and his desire to prove himself was in vain.
A few minutes ticked painfully by. A small, broad man stepped out of an elevator and stood surveying the lobby. The receptionist waved him over, and he shook hands with Patrick at the counter.
Worth the wait, Ian hid his grin behind the magazine. Thanks to thick glasses, the doctor looked like a large lab rat with his triangular face and magnified eyes. His wide, thin mouth was bordered by enlarged, protruding ears. The only thing missing were the whiskers, Ian mused. The white, flowing lab coat emphasized his bulging shape underneath. Ian imagined it also hid his tail.
When Ian stood to greet the scientist, he towered at least a foot over the top of the man’s head. He’s as short as Rayne, Ian thought, curious why his mind touched upon her at that moment.
“Dr. Orr, this is Ian,” Patrick said.
“Sire,” Dr. Orr said under his breath, and he lowered his eyes in reverence. His handshake was loose and swift. The fleeting, formal greeting drove home how the Pur Weir across the world must regard him. Ian grew uncomfortable in the scientist’s presence and resisted the compulsion to apologize. He wasn’t who they needed him to be.
Orr’s attention settled on the girls, and he studied them closely then gripped their hands tight like greeting distant relatives for the first time in years.
“Doctor,” Mara said. Her eyes narrowed as she forced her hand out of his squeeze.
Tara gave him a shy, painful smile until he released hers.
“Why don’t we all head to my office?” Orr said. The group followed him down a brightly lit hallway and into an elevator. “It’s in the next building over. We’ll take the skywalk.” He pressed the fifth-floor button.
“How long have you been at this facility, Doctor?” Patrick said.
“About twenty-one years.” The doors opened. Orr set foot on an elevated bridge enclosed entirely in tempered glass.
“I’m not sure I’d like this if I had claustrophobia,” Patrick said looking down.
“I think you mean acrophobia,” Tara said.
“It almost makes you dizzy,” Mara added.
“If you keep looking ahead, you won’t be affected,” Orr said in the lead.
The doctor’s pace was brisk. It felt like they were being scurried along, and Ian slowed his steps. The walkway offered a panoramic view of the basin and surrounding mountains. Energized by nature’s enveloping landscape, Ian raised his face to the warmth of the sun and absorbed more and more of its energy with each step.
Orr stopped at a set of doors at the far end of the hall. Its placard read Genetics Lab. He swiped his badge, and the doors swished open to reveal a deep elevator. He passed through without punching a button on the console then swiped his badge at the opposite doors. They opened onto a long hallway.
“There are many security features to the compound,” Orr said. “Each building has its own system, and only those assigned have access.”
“Will that limit our tour?” Ian asked.
“Why don’t we discuss the details of your visit in the privacy of my office,” Orr said in a tone more cautious than cordial.
Ian and Patrick exchanged guarded looks. Mara’s hand rested under her jacket.
A quiet tension floated over the group the rest of the way. About three-quarters down the hall, Dr. Orr stopped at a door with a small numbered console and card slot. He entered a code on the keypad at the same time he swiped his badge. Click. The door opened. He gestured for them to enter, then looked up and down the hall before stepping inside and shutting the door behind him.
To say that Dr. Orr was the opposite of Patrick was an understatement. There wasn’t an object out of place or a scrap of paper to be seen anywhere in the compulsively neat office. A lone folder lay open on the barest of desks.
Obsessive or paranoid? Ian wondered.
Two simple metal chairs with cushioned seats sat across from the desk. A large tufted leather couch graced the wall. Ian suspected that Dr. Orr often slept on its worn cushions, more during the night than for catnaps in the day.
At the absence of personal photos, Ian guessed that Dr. Orr was married to his work.
The doctor stood behind his desk and put a finger up to his lips before anyone could speak. The group stood frozen in place, unsure how to proceed.
Orr slid his hand along the underside of the desk and depressed a button. After that, the doctor became cordial again. “Please, everyone, find a seat and do make yourselves comfortable,” he said.
The men settled in the metal chairs while the girls sat at the far end of the room on the couch, relieved to put some distance between them and the Mouse.
“What were you told about your visit?” Orr asked.
“We’re to tour the facility and learn about the research that the Weir do here. I’m to report back to the Syndrion,” Ian said, managing to keep sarcasm out of his voice.
“I was told to arrange a show at the facility as a cover for the visit. Nothing too elaborate, I’m afraid,” Patrick said. “Not on such short notice.”
“There won’t be a tour.” Orr settled back in his chair. “The appearance of a tour was to eliminate suspicion if you were seen walking on the grounds. The Syndrion chose not to inform the other Weir at the facility of your visit. It’s my responsibility to make sure it stays that way. Only my research assistant, Dr. Allison Shaunessy, and I know who you really are. The plan is for you to put on your performance tomorrow as scheduled to keep your visit credible.”
“What are we to do in the
meantime?” Ian asked with rising irritation. Was this nothing more than glorified babysitting?
“You are the Channels, correct?” Orr looked past Ian at the girls. They nodded in unison. “I’ve made countless requests over the years, asking for an audience,” he said. “I had given up hope until Drion Marcus contacted me. I can’t begin to tell you how excited I am to meet you since you are the basis for all of my research.”
Ian scooted to the edge of his seat, more alert than he’d been all morning. He was suddenly quite interested in his very first Syndrion assignment.
{34}
Jaered targeted a man with similar looks and build at the local diner. After Jaered served his Early Bird Special and coffee refill, he came down with a sudden bout of stomach flu and made a beeline for the restroom. Jaered emerged a few minutes later with the man’s ID.
Once at QualSton, Jaered slipped a switchblade into the outside pocket of a scientist’s backpack, then stepped in line behind him to pass through security. At the blare of an alarm, the distracted guard waved at Jaered to go ahead of the blubbering man. He swiped the stolen ID, and walked through the gate without as much as a turn of anyone’s head. He found soiled coveralls in a laundry bin in the men’s locker room. The stench of perspiration became tolerable once he stepped into fresh air.
Jaered peeked around the corner but quickly drew back. Two maintenance workers headed his way. He grabbed the toolbox at his feet and stepped out from the shed. With his cap low on his forehead, he nonchalantly nodded at the men as he strolled by. He slipped into one of the nearby grounds carts after hotwiring it, then steered down the path headed for the main complex.
While waiting for pedestrians to exit the street, a large truck with the logo Fade to Black Productions appeared ahead of him. He gripped the wheel.
The truck came to a stop beyond the intersection and the driver leaned out the window. “Hey, buddy, can you tell me where the conference hall is?”
A man in a white lab coat pointed.
Jaered turned onto the road, following the truck at a distance. It pulled into a lot with a sign indicating parking for the Conference Hall and Classroom Buildings A and B. The moment the truck pulled to a stop, Jaered got out of the cart and ran up to the driver. “I was sent here to help.”
The man opened the back and lowered a platform. “Great, I could use it.” He reached out, “Jamal.”
“Norris,” Jaered said, reciting the name on the stolen ID. He shook hands. “What is all this?”
“Ian Black, the illusionist, is scheduled to perform here at the facility. It’s for some celebration they’re having.”
“It’s our centennial,” Jaered said and shrugged. “As if we need another excuse to get plastered on our butts around here.”
“Sounds like my kind of place,” Jamal said.
“That’s a lot of gear to set up before tonight.”
“It’s not until tomorrow afternoon.” Jamal handed Jaered some poles. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
{35}
The last of Rayne’s patience seeped out of her. “Please, I’ve driven all this way. Can’t you at least track down the address?”
The woman on the other side of the counter continued to ignore her. Could you be any more rude, Rayne thought, staring at the playful cat pattern on the woman’s sweater. She imagined them sinking their claws through the thick weave.
She wasn’t about to be discouraged. “I have the name and the approximate date we lived here. Isn’t that enough for a search?”
“I told you, without your dad’s name, I can’t confirm the residence,” the woman said in her high-pitched nasal twine.
“I only have my mother’s,” Rayne said. “But they must have both been on the mortgage. Can’t you at least check?”
“Give me both their names and I’m happy to search for it.”
Rayne grasped the counter’s edge. “If I had both their names, I wouldn’t be begging you to try with just one.” When the woman regarded Rayne for the first time, it took everything she had to offer up a tight-lipped smile.
The woman approached the counter. The name Charlotte jumped out from a name tag. Rayne bit her tongue at the bright-yellow smiley face beside it. Charlotte’s exaggerated sigh for the benefit of her coworkers drove Rayne to bite down harder.
“Fine, name?” Charlotte said.
“Claire Bevan.”
Charlotte typed. At a beep, she squinted at the screen. “No record found.” Her excessive baby-blue eye shadow heightened her I-told-you-so expression.
Rayne leaned in to look at the screen. “There must be some mistake.”
Charlotte sniffed and typed again. The beep prompted a few of her coworkers to lift their faces from their screens before returning to their work. “Nada.”
“We lived here, for at least three years.” Rayne shook her head. “Nothing under the name of Bevan, between sixteen and twenty years ago?”
“That’s what I typed in the second time.” Charlotte shrugged. “I tried to tell you, back then most mortgages were under the husband’s name. But Bevan didn’t even turn up.”
Rayne’s thoughts raced to find some other way to search before she lost Charlotte back to her desk pile.
The woman’s face scrunched as if deep in thought. “Maybe they rented. It’s possible your mother kept her maiden name, or perhaps your mother changed your last name after she moved away.”
At a loss, Rayne looked at the diary in her hands and tried to recall what little she knew of her father. There had to be another way to search for pieces of her past.
“Come back with another name, and I’m happy to help.” Charlotte’s tone conveyed anything but sincerity.
Rayne stepped out into the bright sun and leaned against the railing. Doubt crept in and she wondered what she’d find if she kept pursuing this. Mom took you away from here for a reason, her psyche warned. She protected you from something. She pressed the diary against her chest—something or someone. Not ready to admit defeat, she found a nearby park bench and settled in with the diary, desperate to find more clues.
The chill from the park bench soon penetrated her jeans and numbed her legs. She ignored the discomfort, engrossed in the latest entry.
It’s insane. Her mother’s handwriting darkened. To use his own daughter in his twisted experiments. I can’t stand by and do nothing any longer. I have to spare her.
Rayne’s heart skipped a beat, perplexed at a man she couldn’t remember.
Her fingers brushed against a raised portion of the book’s pastedown and she followed the rectangular outline of the bulge underneath. Intrigued, she rummaged in her purse. The tip of a metal nail file looked sharp enough. She pressed hard and it sliced through the paper surrounding the bulge. A folded copy of a news article was hidden inside.
The article reported on a local facility. She’d seen that name before. It took Rayne dumping the contents of her purse on the park bench to realize that her cell phone was back at the motel. A nearby phone booth looked promising. It offered a dangling cord but no receiver. Rayne was ready to return for the forgotten phone when her attention came to rest on a billboard halfway down the street. The facility’s name stood in large type complete with an arrow pointing the way as though challenging her to follow.
She grabbed her purse. Rayne was headed to QualSton.
{36}
Dr. Orr closed the blinds. “We have approximately two hundred human scientists scattered throughout a few labs. They are responsible for the government-funded projects at the facility. In addition, many of our environmental protection projects receive private funding. The majority of the facility’s two hundred or so Weir scientists are responsible for those. There are approximately fifty or more Weir scientists dedicated to the Syndrion’s sanctioned projects,” Orr said. “I belong to that group.”
“What type of Syndrion projects?” Ian asked.
“They involve mind control studies, Your Highness. In this building, genetics is at t
heir core. Other departments in the compound focus on sound, chemical, and drug components.”
“What do the girls have to do with mind control?” Ian asked.
“Channeling, of course,” Orr replied. “Two brains connected by shared thought. Well, in your case, three.”
“You’ve studied the girls?” Patrick said.
“No,” Mara snapped. Her eyes narrowed. “I’d remember.”
“I was provided with their DNA,” Orr said, dripping with pride. He raised his chest, giving Ian the impression that he loved more than anything to talk about his work. “I study genomes and the parts of the brain that control communication and thought.” Orr’s face lit up. “I suspect the Syndrion sent you because my research is ready to be field tested.”
Did the Syndrion send them there to be guinea pigs? Pulsating throbs thrummed in his ears. Behind him, the girls’ racing heartbeats mirrored his own. His core grew warm and he focused on his breathing to control his temper.
Orr rose and came around his desk. “I have gone beyond the human connection and have researched a different type of Channel. I believe I have created an animal component to the phenomenon.”
The group’s stunned reaction lobbed over Orr’s head. The man’s smile never wavered. It made the scientist impossible to read and left Ian more than a little cautious.
“Come with me. It would be easier to explain my research by showing you the test subjects,” Orr said.
No one spoke as the group followed Orr to an outer building at the edge of the grounds.
A high chain link fence surrounded the concrete building lined on one side with empty outdoor kennels. Signs proclaimed that it was protected by twenty-four-hour guards. Ian hadn’t noticed any on the way there.
The isolated building nested inside a grove of pine trees and blue spruce near the large public forest surrounding the facility. Its isolation didn’t slip past Ian’s attention.
Orr conversed with Patrick as the two men walked toward a door, ahead of Ian and the twins. Their shared distress had weighed upon him ever since the shocking news back in the office. It grew unbearable as they approached the building. The three of them stopped in unison.
