by Elle Gray
Didrik takes the center of a large, plush sofa that’s done in cherry wood and rich, hunter-green fabric. A matched set of wingbacks sit across from the couch, separated by an elegant brass and glass coffee table. I kneel down beside Marcy’s chair and line up my camera to take a shot of him. He leans back on the sofa, draping his arms over the back, and crosses his legs, a soft smile on his face. Marcy sets a recorder down on the table and switches it on for the interview.
“That’s great, Mr. Sjoberg,” I say. “That’s a perfect shot. Just a couple more.”
“Of course. Take as many as you like,” he says with a wide smile. “And please, feel free to call me Didi.”
“Very good, Didi,” I nod. “I’m going to switch lenses now and I’ll be taking some candid shots as you and Ms. Bryant talk.”
“Very well. Whatever you wish.”
I give Marcy a nod, then kneel down and start to root through my camera bag. I slip the bug out of the pocket casually, and doing my best to appear as if I’m changing lenses, I stick the bug underneath the lip of the small table that sits between the two wingbacks. Nobody raises an alarm, which tells me nobody noticed. Which is good. Marcy walks Sjoberg through some softball questions, getting him to talk about himself and his life—two subjects he seems to really enjoy talking about.
Marcy smiles and looks for all the world like she’s fascinated by him. She refers to the pages of notes she put together in preparation for this. Marcy is an absolute pro. The door to the office opens and none other than Ethan Rogers steps in. He doesn’t introduce himself and just stands against the far wall, arms folded over his chest, a smarmy look on his face.
From what I can see in these first moments, he’s the exact opposite of Sjoberg. Where the Swede is boastful and blustering, long-winded, and talkative, Rogers seems quieter. More reserved. There is a quiet intensity about the man that’s somewhat creepy and unsettling, if I’m being honest. It makes me really wonder who calls the shots around here.
“So, Mr. Sjoberg,” Marcy says. “If you’d be so king as take me through the process of bringing your drug to market, I think that’s a good place to start.”
He gives her a long-winded answer about the clinical trials, which he claims went flawlessly, and the FDA approval process, which he seems to take extreme issue with. I tune him out and instead, send a quick text to Brody to see if the bug is transmitting. He replies back a moment later telling me it’s coming through loud and clear.
Marcy spends another five minutes or so asking puff questions designed to put him at ease. I let her do her thing as I walk around the office snapping pictures and doing my best to look like a professional photojournalist. I give her a subtle nod, letting her know it’s time to hammer him.
“Mr. Sjoberg—Didi—” Marcy starts. “I’ve gotten some information from a reliable source that your clinical trials didn’t go as smoothly as you claim. In fact, this source tells me there have been side effects that have included birth defects and the deaths of children—three that we know of, to be precise.”
Technically, we know of four, but she’s keeping Emma Welsh in the dark. Smart play. We still don’t know what we might find from that thread. He doesn’t need to know everything we know.
Sjoberg sits up straight and rigid on the sofa. He glares at Marcy, a fire burning in his eyes as his expression darkens.
“Where did you hear these lies?” he growls.
“You know I can’t reveal my source,” she replies. “But these side effects—”
“Are lies. We have no reported side effects. We certainly haven’t had any children die because of our drug,” he cuts her off, his voice tight.
“So, you’re not aware of the fact that Judy Upton, Casey O’Toole, and Monica Black reported serious birth defects to their children—none of whom lived more than four days after birth?” Marcy asks.
“Of course not. I know nothing of this,” he snaps.
“Are you also not aware that all three women have subsequently died under mysterious circumstances?”
“Ms. Bryant, I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but I can assure you that it is entirely inaccurate. You can see the reporting of our clinical trials on file with the FDA—”
“Yes, about that. We also have it on good authority that the results of your clinical trials are fraudulent,” she presses. “We have learned that when the side effects I mentioned were discovered, somebody altered the records of the trials to eliminate them as subjects.”
“Listen to me now, Ms. Bryant, I truly don’t appreciate being sandbagged like this. When you contacted my office, you never mentioned that you would be spouting these wildly inaccurate conspiracy theories. Because that’s all they are,” he growls. “And frankly, I am offended that you would come to me with this rubbish. How dare you, Ms. Bryant. We are in the business of saving lives. Xytophyl is an important tool in doing just that. The results of our drug have all been positive, regardless of the gossip and innuendo you have heard.”
“What if I told you the information came from an anonymous whistleblower inside your company?” she asks.
He scoffs. “Trust me when I say if somebody who works here were spreading those sorts of malicious lies, they would be dealt with.”
“Dealt with? Do you mean in the same way Judy Upton, Casey O’Toole, and Monica Black were dealt with, Mr. Sjoberg?”
His face turns red, and he looks absolutely apoplectic. I’m half convinced his head is going to explode like in that old cheesy sci-fi flick Scanners.
“You’re putting words in my mouth. Of course, that’s not what I meant,” he spits. “This interview is over, Ms. Bryant. Security will escort you out.”
Marcy grins at him wolfishly. “That’s fine. I think I have what I need.”
“Let me warn you, little girl—if you dare print any of this garbage, if you dare spread these lies and rumors, I will sue you into oblivion,” he says through gritted teeth. “As it is, I’m going to have your job. Expect me to contact your superior within the hour with—”
“Oh, you can try, but I won’t be taking your call,” Marcy grins. “See, I’m my own boss, and I’m not really inclined to fire myself anytime soon. Good luck with that, though.”
Marcy gets to her feet and slides her notepad into her bag, then snatches up the recorder before Sjoberg thinks about snatching it first. Sjoberg gets to his feet and looms over her, using his height to try and intimidate her. But Marcy is hardly intimidated. She simply looks back at him with that smile still on her face.
“You’ve made a grave error, Ms. Bryant. You don’t know who you are dealing with,” he says coldly. “And you have no idea the Pandora’s Box you just opened upon yourself.”
“Is that a threat, Mr. Sjoberg? Are you actually threatening a member of the press?”
“Take that as you will,” he glowers. “However, if I were you, I would grow a pair of eyes in the back of my head.”
“Oh, is that another side effect of your faulty drug?”
“Get out,” he hisses with barely controlled rage. “Get out right now.”
I so badly want to ask him about Veronica, but my purpose here was to plant the bug and get us out in one piece. I also don’t want to draw any attention to myself. I don’t want Sjoberg to remember my face since I’ll be back to do my night shift here soon enough.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Sjoberg,” Marcy says. “It was very enlightening.”
“I warn you again, do not dare print one word of your lies or you will be looking at the biggest defamation lawsuit in history,” he hisses. “I will sue you for everything you have and then some. Your children’s children won’t have two nickels to rub together when I’m through with you.”
Marcy flashes him a saccharine sweet smile. “It’s only defamation if what I print are lies without facts to back them up. Your mistake, Mr. Sjoberg, is assuming I don’t have proof to back up my assertions.”
Sjoberg’s face is a twisted mask of rag
e. Marcy turns and walks out before he can reply to her final salvo. I quickly follow her out of his office. Even as we walk down the hall, two hulking uniformed security guards trailing behind us, we can hear Sjoberg ranting and railing in his office. We make it outside and step into the gloomy, overcast day and walk to my car.
We have the good sense to wait until we’re actually inside and driving off before we let our howls of laughter burst from us.
“Wow. That turned on a dime,” she says. “That was intense, and that man is not stable. But my God, that was fun. Just to see him squirming like that—I live for experiences like that.”
“I’m not sure Brody is going to approve of your choice in thrill rides,” I say.
She laughs. “He’ll adapt.”
I give her a soft smile. “You really do remind me of Veronica,” I tell her. “She was so much like you—fired up and excited to make a difference. To take down the bad guys. You two are so much alike.”
Her smile is warm and genuine. “That really is the best compliment you could ever give me,” she says. “It really is.”
“It’s just the truth.”
“Well then, let’s finish this. Let’s take these guys down in her honor.”
“Trust me when I say that nothing would make me happier,” I say. “Nothing at all.”
Twenty-Seven
Archton Media Corporate Tower, Subfloor 1, Room 3; Downtown Seattle
“I don’t know who’s behind it all. Sjoberg’s got the motive. But Rogers just has the creep factor that makes me think he’s capable of these horrors,” I say. “I would not be surprised to find that he does human dissection in his basement at home. The guy is just… unsettling.”
Marcy looks up from her compact and nods. She’s still fiddling with the various piercings that she’d had to remove for the interview. “I noticed that too. Dude gives me the heebie-jeebies. I’d definitely never, ever leave my kids alone with him.”
“You should have seen her questioning him, though,” I add, turning to Brody. “She was like Evil Lois Lane out there. The guy was just livid. She knocked him off balance and kept him there. She was amazing. Top-notch interviewing skills. Seriously.”
Marcy waves me off. “It wasn’t that big of a deal.”
“It really was. You were really great.”
“That’s my girl,” Brody grins. “And I kind of know how Sjoberg feels. She verbally eviscerates me on the regular.”
We’re sitting around the table in our war room sharing our stories from the day and a few laughs, drawing up the battle plan for what’s to come—because something will be coming. We kicked the same hornets’ nest that Veronica did. Now, we just need to sit back and wait to see what happens next. I have no doubt the goons in black are going to be dispatched to either put a scare into us to keep us silent, or maybe to just kill us outright. It’s exactly the reason I committed to getting Marcy out of the country for a few days.
I have Nick on his way over to the Tower right now. He’ll escort her to the airstrip, then onto the plane, bound for wherever she wants to go—so long as it’s outside the continental US. Getting her out of the country is the only way I can ensure her safety.
“So, are we thinking it’s Rogers who’s behind Veronica’s death?” Brody asks.
“I just don’t know,” I admit. “To be honest, it could have been either one of them.”
“Or maybe both of them,” Marcy points out. “I honestly don’t think there’s anything Rogers does that Sjoberg doesn’t know about.”
“I’m not so sure,” I counter. “Sjoberg is a little unhinged. And a lot self-absorbed. I don’t think it would be all that difficult for Rogers to do a lot of shady, evil things behind the man’s back. And I fully believe he does. He just has that vibe.”
Marcy looks over at Brody. “He’s definitely got that Death Eater vibe.”
Brody nods. “I’m picking up on that.”
I have no idea what they’re talking about. Must be one of those inside jokes all couples have. I know Veronica and I had our fair share of them. Those things we’d laugh at in stolen moments, making everybody around us look at us like we’d lost our minds—which would inevitably make us laugh even harder. God, I miss that.
“So, what is our next step?” Brody asks.
“Your next step is to drive Nick and Marcy to the airstrip,” I tell him with a glance at my watch. “The pilot and crew should already be there and waiting.”
“Is this really necessary?” Marcy raises an eyebrow. “He doesn’t scare me, you know.”
“I know. I didn’t say he did,” I reply. “But these people aren’t playing around. They’ve got a pile of bodies on them and I’m not going to let you be one. You made yourself a target for Sjoberg and he’s already threatened you. I’ll be damned if I let him make good on it.”
“He’s right,” Brody adds. “As much as I’ll hate being without you for a few days, knowing you’re safe will make me feel a lot better about all of this.”
She purses her lips and nods. “All right. But I want it noted for the record that I’m doing this under protest.”
“Noted,” I laugh. “Now, get out and have a good time. Get your mind out of all this garbage for a while.”
“Easier said than done. But I’ll try.”
She laughs and blows me a kiss. Brody gets to his feet and gives me a nod.
“I’ll be back soon,” he says.
“I’ll be here.”
“So, while you guys were with Sjoberg, I looked into Marina—the whistleblower,” Brody tells me.
We’re back at the table in the war room after taking a break for something to eat once Brody got back from the airstrip. He’s a little glum and tense and I know he’s scared for Marcy. It makes me want to end this whole thing as soon as we can, just so we can get her back here safe and sound.
“Yeah? What did you find?” I ask.
“There was only one Marina employed by Lomtin Labs within the last several years—Marina Panagos,” he says. “Care to guess what happened to her?”
“I’m assuming living out a long, fulfilling, happy life isn’t the correct answer?”
“Far from it,” he says. “She was killed in a hit-and-run. No suspects were ever named and nobody was ever caught.”
“Surprising,” I say glumly.
“Yeah,” he nods. “I do have a bit of potential good news, though. I may have a line on Emma Welsh.”
“You’re kidding me?”
He shakes his head. “Not in the least. Don’t get too excited yet. I’m still not sure how this will play out. It’s a possibility.”
“That’s more than we had before,” I point out. “A little hope is better than nothing.”
“Yeah well, don’t let your hopes get out of control. According to the people I talked to, after the death of her son, she kind of went off the deep end,” he explains. “She was institutionalized for a bit and then was living on the streets. The people I talked to said she was never the same after her son died.”
“I imagine something like that has to break you. Change you in some fundamental and primal way,” I say. “In some respects, I have to imagine it’s even harder than losing a spouse.”
“I hope to never experience either.”
“I don’t recommend it.”
A wry smile touches his lips, and a heaviness settles down over the room. I glance at my watch and nod.
“It’s about time,” I say.
“You sure you want to go through with this?”
“Have to.”
“There’s got to be another way.”
I shake my head. “There isn’t. I’ve gamed this out to the nth degree, and we need to get answers. To do that, we have to attack the weak points. Sjoberg and Rogers have too much to lose. They’ll never talk. So we go after those who don’t have as much skin in the game.”
Brody stares down at the table for a moment. I can see him trying to come up with an argument against what I’m
going to do. Ultimately, he’s unable to come up with a single thing. I’m not thrilled with the idea either. But like I said, sometimes you have to become the monster you’re hunting if you want to catch it. Nobody can do this but me.
“Keep pounding the phones and find Emma Welsh,” I tell him. “We need her.”
Brody nods. “All right. I will. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll find her, alive or dead.”
“Hopefully the former.”
“The way things have gone, I’m expecting the latter,” he groans.
“Well, wish me luck.”
“Good luck.”
I laugh softly as I get to my feet and head out, willing myself to transform into the monster I need to be.
Twenty-Eight
The Rusty Nail Saloon; University District, Seattle, WA
The Rusty Nail sits on the edge of the University District and is a run-down remnant of the past. It somehow manages to hang on year after year though. The Nail, as it’s called, is what people think of when they talk about dive bars. Built from an old barn, the paint on the outside is a pale, faded red—at least in those patches where the paint hasn’t peeled off completely. There are no windows in the place and the stench of stale beer, decades-old cigarette smoke, and body odor permanently saturates the air inside.
The owner scatters hay around on the floor every few weeks, hoping it will absorb some of the odor of the place, but I think he’d have better luck hanging a thousand of those little pine trees from the roof. The tables are all nicked and scarred, the chairs are all mismatched, and faded photos and ancient concert posters line the walls, adding to a general sense of decay throughout the whole bar. But the beer is cheap, which brings the UW students en masse when they’re having one of their dive bar crawls.
It's not a place I’d choose to get myself a drink, but it is a regular spot for one Corporal Thomas Staley. I’m sitting in a boot near the back of the bar shrouded in shadows, just watching. There are a dozen or so people in the place, all of them hunched over their glasses, talking quietly to one another. Country music blares from the jukebox and a couple of waitresses wearing short cutoff denim shorts and plaid shirts tied up to expose their midriffs are huddled in a corner talking excitedly with each other.
