by William Hill
“You’re not putting my mother in a cell,” he repeated. “She hasn’t done anything wrong.”
Marie Carpenter looked at her son, and felt her chest swell with pride.
He can barely stand up, he’s so tired. But he’s still fighting for me.
They had sat next to each other on the flight back to base. Paul Turner, Admiral Seward, and the survivors of Lindisfarne had flown home on the Mina II, the supersonic jet covering the distance in less than twenty minutes. The rest of the operators, the men dispatched to clean up the blood-soaked monastery, would return home in the helicopters that were waiting on the headland and at the mainland end of the causeway.
Mother and son had said very little during the flight. As they had blasted off from the small island, the jet shuddering beneath their feet as it hauled itself into the air, Marie had stayed turned away from Jamie; her shame at what had been done to her, and what he had seen her do, still too great for her to bear. He hadn’t pushed her, or hurried her; he just sat next to her, his head back against his seat, his eyes open, looking at his mother with a smile on his face. Larissa and Kate watched him from across the cabin, as did Admiral Seward and Terry, expressions of sadness on their faces. Paul Turner appeared to be asleep, his cold eyes closed, his head tipped back. Jamie barely noticed them; he just looked at the back of his mother’s head, his face alight with love, and relief.
Eventually, she spoke. “Stop it, Jamie,” she said. “I can feel you staring at me.”
He didn’t reply, nor did he stop looking at his mother.
She spun around and stared at him. “I told you to stop it, Jamie,” she said, fiercely. Then she saw the look on her son’s face, and the fight went out of her. Her face softened, and she reached over and put her arms around him.
Jamie returned her embrace, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face against her shoulder. “I thought I’d lost you, Mom,” he whispered. “I thought I’d lost you.”
She shushed him and held him close. Across the cabin, a smile crept across Kate’s face, and she looked at Larissa. The vampire girl was crying, tears running down her pale face, but she made no attempt to wipe them away.
When the Mina II rolled to a halt at the end of the long runway, the exhausted group of men and women stumbled down the aircraft’s ramp and onto the warm tarmac. Marie was walking steadily on her own, having refused all offers of assistance, Larissa was floating a few inches above the ground, and Jamie had fallen in beside Admiral Seward, who kept glancing at him with a look of mild astonishment on his face, as if he needed to keep checking that the teenager had really stood face-to-face with Alexandru Rusmanov and emerged victorious.
They were walking silently toward the hangar when suddenly the great double doors began to slide open, spilling light across the taxiway, illuminating the tired faces of the approaching figures. Then noise filled the air, as tens of Blacklight operators burst from the hangar and ran to them. Jamie cast a nervous look in Admiral Seward’s direction, but the director merely smiled.
The tide of black-clad men and women stopped in front of Jamie and Seward, and for a moment, there was silence. Then a lone pair of hands began to clap, then another, and another, until the applause was deafening, punctuated with yells and cheers. Jamie took half a step backward and found Admiral Seward’s hand on the small of his back. He looked up at the director, confusion on his face.
“That’s not for me,” said Seward, softly, then began to clap as well, stepping away from Jamie so the teenager stood alone, surrounded by cheering operators and the beaming faces of his family and his new friends. A smile crept across his face, and he walked slowly into the throng, which quickly swallowed him up in a tornado of hugs and handshakes and thumps on the back that nearly knocked the tired teenager off his feet.
“It’s fine, Jamie,” said Marie Carpenter. “It’s the sensible thing to do. I’ll be fine in the cell while we work out what to do.”
Jamie looked at her. Her face was open and honest, her eyes wide, a slight flicker of fear at the corners of her mouth.
“Are you sure?” he asked her.
“Of course I’m sure,” she replied. “Will you come and see me after you get some sleep?”
“Of course,” he said. “I promise.”
“I’ll escort you down,” said Terry, and stepped gently to Marie’s side.
“Thank you,” she said, then looked at her son. “Thank you,” she said again, and he smiled as the instructor led his mother out of the Ops Room.
Tiredness crashed through Jamie.
He looked around the room; Larissa and Kate were chatting amiably, and Admiral Seward was deep in conversation with Major Turner. He walked over and interrupted them.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, his voice cracking. “Do you think someone can find out if the boy in the infirmary is still in a coma? His name’s Matt. I think I’m going to go and lie down, but I’d like to visit him in the morning.”
Seward looked surprised at the request but said he would see to it personally. Jamie thanked him, turned, and walked unsteadily out of the room.
He bumped into the wall twice as he made his way to the elevator at the end of the corridor, the low hum of the base all around him. He pressed the button for the second underground level and closed his eyes. When the doors slid open less than fifteen seconds later, they jolted him from sleep that had dragged him down the second his eyelids met. Jamie shoved himself out of the elevator and pushed open the door to the dormitory. He stumbled through the long room and was about to use the last of his energy to hurl himself onto his bed, when a white object caught his eye.
It was an envelope, standing on the small table beside his bed. Two words were written on it in beautiful, elegant script: Jamie Carpenter
He lifted it from the table, tiredness pulling relentlessly at him, and tore it open. A single sheet of paper fluttered out onto his green bed, covered in more of the same careful handwriting.
Read it tomorrow. Lie down. It’s probably not important. Lie down.
Jamie shook his head, and the fog of tiredness lifted temporarily. He lifted the sheet of paper and began to read. Dear Jamie, If you are reading this, it means I didn’t make it back from Lindisfarne. If that is the case, I don t want you to mourn me-I lived a life full of wonders, alongside some of the finest men and women ever to walk this small planet. I would not have changed a moment of it. I am now certain that Thomas Morris is working against you-I have suspected it for some time, and I became sure when he brought up the night your father was lost. I believe he has been trying to separate us, as he knew that I would not allow any harm to come to you. And now he has achieved his aim. So I am going to follow you to Lindisfarne-I pray I will not be too late. You deserve to know the truth, Jamie. I am sorry that I could not tell you the nature of things before now, but until the true betrayer of Blacklight revealed himself, it was too dangerous. I now believe that person has made themselves known, and the truth can come out. Look after yourself, Jamie. Your ancestors would be proud of what you have done so far, but I believe you have the potential to do extraordinary things in the years to come. My only regret is that I will not be there to see them. Your friend, Victor Frankenstein
Tears spilled from Jamie’s eyes and splashed onto the letter, causing the black ink to run, obscuring Frankenstein’s words. His heart felt as though someone had squeezed it; it hung heavily and painfully in his chest, as hot as a furnace, as hard as coal.
You let him down. He tried to protect you, he only ever tried to protect you, and you let him down. He died saving you, died because you didn’t believe him, because you turned your back on him and walked straight into Thomas Morris’s trap.
Jamie rocked back and forth on the edge of his bed, holding his stomach, sobbing as though the world was ending. He would have given everything he had, everything he would ever have, to be able to bring Frankenstein back, even if it was only for long enough to tell him how sorry he truly was. The monster had honor
ed his oath to the Carpenter family to the very last, and Jamie knew he was never going to be able to forgive himself for creating the situation that had put his friend in harm’s way.
For the first time in a long time, Julian Carpenter’s voice popped into Jamie’s head.
He’s gone, son. There’s nothing you can do, except prove him right for believing in you. That’s the best way you can remember him.
Something in his father’s voice calmed Jamie, and a deep resolve settled into his stomach, a resolve to do as his dad suggested, to make the lost monster proud of him; he would never doubt him again.
A knock on the dormitory door roused him from his thoughts.
“Come in,” he shouted, his voice unsteady.
The door swung open, and Admiral Seward stepped into the room. The director of Department 19 looked tired, but there was the ghost of a smile on his lined face as he walked down the long dormitory to Jamie’s bunk. He was carrying something in his hand, but he was keeping it hidden behind his back as he walked, and Jamie could not make it out.
“How are you feeling?” asked Seward, as he stopped in front of the bunk.
Jamie handed him Frankenstein’s letter and watched the director’s eyes widen as he read the words the monster had written. He lowered the paper and looked at Jamie with incredible sadness on his face.
“It wasn’t your-” he began, but Jamie interrupted him.
“Yes, it was, sir. We both know it was. But thanks for saying it.”
Seward looked at him for a long moment, then brought the hand from behind his back. Jamie gasped; in the old man’s hand were a small purple box, and the Bowie knife that had once belonged to Quincey Morris.
“May I sit down?” asked Seward.
Jamie nodded, his eyes never leaving the knife. The blade that had pierced Dracula’s heart, that had been passed down through the Morris family, that had been used only hours ago to perform Thomas Morris’s ultimate betrayal.
The director eased himself down onto the bunk beside Jamie and passed him the knife. Jamie held it lightly in his hands, a feeling of revulsion spreading up his spine.
“It was handed to me by the men who brought Tom’s body out of the monastery,” said Seward, gently. “They wanted to know what to do with it. What do you think I should tell them?”
Jamie turned the knife over in his hands. The blade was stained brown with blood and dirt, and the leather of its sheath was worn and battered.
“It belongs with the dead,” said Jamie. “It should go back there.”
A flicker of a smile flashed across Seward’s face, then he gently lifted the knife from Jamie’s hands.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll have it returned to the Fallen Gallery, where it belongs.” The director placed the knife down and handed Jamie the purple box. “The contents of this box, however, I believe belong right here, with you. Open it.”
Jamie lifted the purple lid, and for a moment, his heart stopped.
Inside the box was a circular medal, cast in gold, and engraved with the Department 19 crest. Beneath the crest, where the three Latin words of the Blacklight motto usually stood, were two simple words of English: FOR GALLANTRY
In the lid lay a square plate of gold on which was inscribed the following: THE MEDAL OF GALLANTRY, FIRST CLASS PRESENTED TO JULIAN CARPENTER THIS DAY OF OUR LORD FEBRUARY 19, 2005
“It was found in his quarters after he died,” said Admiral Seward, his voice little more than a whisper. “When an operator dies, there is rarely anyone to pass such things on to. But I held on to it, in case you followed in his footsteps.”
Jamie was still staring at the medal, his throat filled by a lump so large he couldn’t breathe, his face hot, his hands shaking.
“He would have wanted you to have it,” continued Seward. “But more than that, you deserve it for what you did tonight.”
Jamie managed a deep, rattling breath, and felt his composure begin to return. He looked at the director and was shocked to see tears rolling down the old man’s face.
“Your father would have been very proud of you, Jamie,” said Seward. Then he was on his feet, and striding across the dormitory without a backward glance.
Jamie watched him go, watched the door swing shut after him, and lowered himself slowly onto his bunk. He stared at the ceiling above him, his father’s medal gripped tightly in his hands, his mind full of the faces of the lost and the found, and slipped gently into darkness.
FIRST EPILOGUE
Doctor Alan McCall pushed open the door of the Department 19 infirmary, clutching a polystyrene cup of coffee in his hand, and stepped inside. He had been sound asleep in his quarters when the message from the director had beeped across the screen of his handheld console, rousing him. NEED IMMEDIATE REPORT ON INJURED CIVILIAN MINOR.
McCall had groaned and sat slowly up on the edge of his bed. Matt Browning was still in the coma that he and his staff had induced, a coma from which they were not planning to attempt to wake him from for at least another forty-eight hours. A report would be completely redundant, but the request was from Admiral Seward, and the doctor would do as he was told.
The doctor crossed the infirmary quickly. The beds were all empty; the operator who had been injured in the same recovery that had brought Matt to the Loop had been discharged. They had transfused every drop of blood in his body, flushing out the infected cells before the turn had been able to take hold of his system. It had been touch and go, but the man would make a full recovery; he had been sent to one of the dormitories on the lower levels to rest.
The only patient in the infirmary was the teenage boy. McCall could see the motionless outline of his body behind the frosted glass of the door marked THEATER. He eased open the door and froze, his heart leaping into his throat.
Matt Browning’s eyes were open.
At the sound of the opening door, the teenager slowly turned his pale, waxy face toward the doctor and spoke three words: “Where am I?”
McCall rushed across the room and took Matt’s face gently in his hands. He shone a light into the unprotesting teenager’s eyes, then placed his fingers against the boy’s neck. He felt the steady, rhythmic pulse beneath the skin, and paged the duty nurse to come to the infirmary at once.
“Where am I?” repeated Matt, his voice little more than a whisper.
“You’re safe,” replied McCall, his eyes scanning the screens on the bank of machines that were attached to his patient. “You’re in a safe place.”
The duty nurse hustled into the infirmary, calling Doctor McCall’s name.
“In here,” he shouted, and a moment later, the nurse, a young woman called Cathy who had only been working at the Loop for three months, appeared in the room.
“My God,” she exclaimed, her hand going to her mouth.
“I want blood tests run immediately,” said McCall. “I want you to take it down to the lab yourself and wait there for the results. Understood?”
The nurse was still staring at Matt’s pale, confused face, but her training kicked in.
“Yes doctor,” she replied, and set about her task, pulling a syringe from one of the drawers in the room’s central console, and bending over Matt’s arm.
The boy winced as the needle slid through his skin, but he didn’t shift his gaze from Doctor McCall, who was making rapid notes on his console, his fingers flying across the keys.
“Doctor?” he said, softly, and McCall looked up.
“Yes, Matt?”
“I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know what’s happening.” The teenager’s face crumpled, and tears brimmed at the corners of his eyes. McCall shoved the console into his pocket and crouched down beside the teenager’s bed.
“It’s okay,” he said, gently. “You were hurt, badly hurt, and we had to put you to sleep for a little while. But you’re going to be fine.”
“I want to go home. I want my mom.”
“I know you do. One of my colleagues will need to talk to you first, bu
t we’ll get you home as soon as we possibly can.”
The duty nurse withdrew the syringe from Matt’s arm and almost ran out of the room, heading for one of the lifts that would take her down to the laboratory, deep into the bowels of the Loop.
McCall watched her go, then turned back to Matt.
“Do you remember what happened to you? Anything at all?” he asked.
Matt shook his head. “I remember coming home from school. That’s all. I don’t even know what day that was.” Pain and confusion flickered across his face, and McCall’s heart went out to the teenager.
He must be terrified. He’s doing a good job of not showing it, but he must be.
“I need to go and talk to someone,” the doctor said. “I’ll be back in five minutes. I promise. All right?”
Matt nodded.
“Okay. Five minutes.” Doctor McCall pushed himself up to his feet and headed through the door and out into the infirmary.
Matt Browning watched him go, then let his head roll back onto his pillow, so he was staring up at the white ceiling. His hands were shaking.
He believes you. It’s all right, he believes you.
Matt had been awake for almost an hour. His eyes had drifted open onto this unfamiliar place, and fear and disorientation had flooded through him. Then the memory of what had happened to him had burst into his mind, and he had cried out in the silent room. He could see the broken shape of the girl in the flowerbed, hear the deafening thunder of the helicopter as it lowered itself onto their quiet street, and feel the rising fear that had gripped him as the black-clad men with guns had shoved their way past him and his dad and into his home.
