* * *
Larabeth was oddly at home with the clatter of medical instruments and the stench of burned flesh. It was so much like Vietnam. She was sure Guillaume heard her voice. Thoroughly dosed with painkillers, he barely stirred when she spoke, but he heard her. She was certain.
She had lain in a hospital bed, half-butchered and fully doped up, and she knew what it was like. She had been aware of her surroundings. She had been aware of what had happened to her. She had even been aware of the pain. The pain was always out there, hiding in the twilight with the rest of the world, but she hadn't cared much and she wouldn't have been able to tell anyone, even if she had cared. Talking took too much effort and the morphine wouldn't even let her try.
Guillaume's doctor motioned her out into the hall. He had been very forthcoming with information. She could tell he liked her because she was cool and she spoke his language and she didn't faint at the sight of Guillaume's injuries. The real Eugenie wouldn't have handled the situation nearly so well.
She listened to the prognosis—grave—and thanked the doctor for his time. As she settled in the waiting room next to J.D., she said, “They've called in a pulmonary specialist to check out his lungs. If we wait here, we can talk to him, too.”
“What did this doctor say?”
“His lungs are bad. They've had to put him on a ventilator. They won't know for a while about his eyes. He has third-degree burns over a lot of his body. The doctor told me what percentage but I forgot.” She was doing a good job of holding back the tears and the nausea, but her mind was betraying her. “Why can't I remember that number? Numbers are what I do.”
She saw two men approach Guillaume's doctor, who was still standing near the waiting room door. One of them was fortyish and balding. He flashed a badge and identified himself as Agent Lefkoff of the FBI. The younger one was red-haired, broad-faced, and broad-shouldered. He paused and stared at Larabeth, who sat calmly in her damp clothes and stared back. The doctor and Lefkoff waited for the redheaded agent to identify himself.
After a moment, he turned back to the doctor and said, “My name's Yancey. We're here as part of an investigation into the attack on Mr. Langlois.” The three men moved away from the door.
Larabeth elbowed J.D. “Did you hear that?” she hissed.
He elbowed her back. “Of course I did,” he said quietly. “Didn't you expect them to show up here, looking for leads?”
“But Guillaume can't talk to them.”
“They don't know that.”
Larabeth twisted around in her seat, checking the other exits. She said, “I'm not ready to go with them yet.”
“Settle down. Nobody's asked you to go with them.”
She shuffled through her briefcase. “I've been thinking. When I drop out of sight, Babykiller may do something drastic. I want the FBI to know what he has threatened before I turn myself over to them. I want them to listen to these,” she said, retrieving the audiotapes she had intended to give Guillaume. “They can hear his threats to nuclear power plants and the Savannah River Site. Then they can decide for themselves whether they want to take me in for protection.”
J.D. was slow to answer and he almost forgot to whisper. “You're saying that the FBI may think it's too dangerous to take you in—that they might leave you vulnerable to Babykiller.”
“If it meant preventing nuclear doom? Yes. I think they might throw me to the wolves to protect thousands of other people. Wouldn't you?”
J.D. didn't have anything to say.
“Well,” Larabeth said quietly. “Let's give them these tapes and let them think about it overnight. We'll see what they have to say tomorrow. Maybe they'll give me refuge. Or maybe you'll be stuck as my bodyguard for a while longer.”
She drew a line through Guillaume's name on the package and wrote Agent Yancey's in its place. She checked to make sure the tapes of Babykiller's threats were still inside. Then she wrote a message on the inside of the envelope flap: Meet me by the giraffe's cage at Audubon Park tomorrow morning at nine o'clock.
She sealed it and walked out into the hall with J.D.. Yancey was down the hall, still talking to the doctor, but he saw her. She waited until he caught her eye. Then she put the package on the counter at the nurses' station, concealed under a branch of a trailing potted plant, and walked away.
* * *
Lefkoff hustled to keep up with Yancey as they walked through the hospital parking lot.
“Yes!” the kid bellowed, punching his fist to the sky as if he'd just sacked a quarterback or something. He lowered his voice, “She's coming in. She's going to meet us at Audubon Park tomorrow morning. And there are cassettes in here. This woman's too good to waste. The Bureau should recruit her. And they'll have plenty of time to do it, after nine o'clock tomorrow morning.”
Lefkoff worked to keep his cool. The boss was going to love this. As soon as he got a chance, he'd put a call through to Gerald with the news. Gerald could always get word to Babykiller when it really mattered.
“Do you think she'll be okay until then?” young Yancey asked. “We'd better put a tail on her,” he answered himself. “Can you take care of that, Lefkoff?”
“You bet.”
* * *
It was after ten p.m. and Larabeth was still in her office at BioHeal. She had been working with her Vietnam veterans database since she left Guillaume's bedside. J.D. was sitting on her office couch, using a tape player and earphones to review Babykiller's conversations. It had been hours since either of them had mentioned Larabeth's plan to ask the FBI for refuge.
Her purse phone rang and Larabeth flinched. “Look at me,” she said. “I'm worse than Pavlov's dogs drooling at the sound of the dinner bell.” She picked up the phone and J.D. pulled off his earphones, so he could hear her better.
The voice was Kydd's. “I've been trying to get in touch with you all day. Don't you check your e-mail?”
“Sometimes I forget,” Larabeth said, trying not to sound sheepish. “I've had a hard day.”
“Yeah, I know. The news about your friend's attack is all over the net. I'm sorry. Really sorry.”
“Thanks,” Larabeth said, aware that, for Kydd, this was a rare and effusive display of sympathy. Then, knowing that Kydd preferred to avoid pleasantries, Larabeth got to the point. “Did you have any luck tracing Babykiller's call?”
“Some, but not enough. I found out the phone he was using is registered to L.E. Ferguson and I got the physical address.”
“His name.” Larabeth rose out of her chair in excitement. J.D. was on his feet, too.
“Hardly” Kydd said bluntly. “L.E. Ferguson—Lu Ellen Ferguson—is a ninety-one-year-old nursing home resident. Her nurses tell me she's been in a chronic vegetative state for nine years now.”
“Identity theft?”
“Yeah, it's pretty easy to accomplish when the victim's comatose. Maybe J.D. can do whatever detectives do. Maybe he can tap into Mrs. Ferguson's caretakers or pull her credit report to see if your Babykiller friend has other uses for her identity, but there's nothing else I can do for you.”
“You've done a lot, Kydd. Thank you.”
“If you need me again, zap me an email. It's quicker than this blasted phone.” Kydd was gone.
J.D. had one eyebrow cocked, so she answered his obvious question. “Kydd struck out. And that reminds me that I forgot to show you this,” she said, waving a small sheaf of papers. “My lab couldn't find anything surprising or unique about the green washer Babykiller put in my sink.”
J.D. flopped back onto the sofa and tossed the earphones down. “So our last two loose ends have been tied up neatly. For Babykiller.”
“Yeah, and the EPA and the FBI have gotten exactly nowhere in their investigations of the Agent Blue and Bambi Slasher incidents. We've got nothing left but this database,” she said, waving at her computer monitor in disgust.
“So what have you got so far?” asked J.D., who knew full well that she'd found nothing. He'd been watching he
r pace and swear all evening.
Larabeth rolled her eyes. “I've checked psychiatric records. I've looked for dishonorable discharges and disciplinary actions. I've reviewed arrest records, but they're sketchy. I get nothing. There are just too many names on this list.”
“Whine, whine, whine,” J.D. said from behind a cup of coffee. “If the VA tried that kind of excuse, you'd accuse them of a conspiracy.”
“True, but it's rude of you to say so at this hour.”
“Why don't you look at veterans who were wounded, but who didn't receive a Purple Heart? That would tend to make a guy unhappy.”
“Why not?” Larabeth flicked her mouse here and there, grunting in annoyance when the phone rang.
She picked it up knowing precisely who it might be. “Hello?”
“Hi, Doc. That was a lovely shot of you on the evening news. Hands over your face, huddled over like an old hag—it wasn't your usual glamorous publicity shot.”
She spoke slowly, enunciating each word. “I do not care what you think about how I look.”
He rattled on. “There you stood,” Babykiller went on, “virtually alone, trapped between the levee and the water. An easy target. A sitting duck.”
“You were there? Are you saying you would actually consider shooting me in a public place?”
J.D. stared at her.
“Let's just say I had a pair of eyes there. Maybe they were the eyes I was born with. Maybe they were eyes I bought and paid for. As for your other question—would I shoot you or have you shot in a public place? No, run-of-the-mill gunplay is not my style. Too inelegant. Now, the indignity that your friend Mr. Langlois endured—that was elegant.”
Larabeth felt her blood pressure rise, but she kept her voice cool. “My friend Mr. Langlois—Guillaume—is suffering and he'll be suffering for a long time. There's nothing elegant about pain.”
“Larabeth. I thought you had more imagination. Of course, there is elegance in pain. I will illustrate. Picture a spectacular example of pain—a cancer victim. The pain doesn't spend itself in a single electric flash. It burns. It grows. It subsides. It is a constant reminder of the slow dying that is already within. And in the end, the pain removes everything. It burns away flesh and leaves its victim nothing but a desire for the end of pain. Nothing is left at the end but the pain and the soul. The end for a shallow person, an ugly person, is a brutal thing. But the end, for a whole human being—there can be true elegance there.”
“Poetic, Babykiller.” Larabeth was tired and she wanted someone to protect her from this psychopath. She wasn't sure whether the FBI would even be willing to try, but at least she'd gotten Cynthia to safety.
“Come now, Larabeth. You've lived in a war zone. You know the face of death better than most. Isn't that face sometimes poetic, sometimes sublime or grotesque? Combat was a ballet set to deafening music. It was magic, as long as the brass stayed out of it. They had their inane plans and their tactical chemicals. All they did was take the war away from the warriors and give it to impotent old men.”
“And after they stole our war,” Babykiller went on, “and lost it for us, they let us die. Our priceless government has its eye on the sparrow, not to mention every little snail darter, yet they sprayed every one of us with Agent Orange. They're hoping we'll all die and get out of their faces.”
“You know I did my doctoral research on the effects of Agent Orange,” she said. “Is that why you picked me?”
“Oh, no, Doc.” The voice regained its crafty edge. “I picked you for your beautiful face. And for your scars. And that's all you need to know. Well, there are a couple of other things you should know before I go. First, you're wrong about your friend Mr. Langlois.”
“How am I wrong about Guillaume?”
“You're not wrong about the cause of his unpleasant encounter. I planned it, of course. Who else could have orchestrated such a performance? I won't be caught, but that goes without saying. The Nebraska corn farmers won't catch me. And the EPA's eco-SWAT team, the one assigned to my Bambi-slashing, is ludicrous. No, you're not wrong about who ambushed your friend, but you're still wrong.”
“Are you going to tell me where I'm wrong, or are you just enjoying the sound of your own voice?”
“You're wrong, darling Larabeth, about his pain. He has no pain. Not any more. He's dead.”
“Why should I believe that?” Her tone was sharp. J.D.'s hand squeezed her arm, hard.
“I have done many things, my dear, and I will do many more, but I will never lie to you. I have my sources. He died not half an hour before I called you. Cardiac arrest due to acute respiratory failure.” His satisfied tone was too much for Larabeth.
“You son of a bitch.”
“Profanity does not become a woman of your breeding. You must remain calm, because I have one more piece of news and you're going to like it even less.”
“I can hardly wait.”
“Sarcasm doesn't become you, either. I just wanted to tell you about the little trip I just took. To Aiken, South Carolina.”
Larabeth swayed, thankful for J.D.'s grip.
‘Are you there? As I said, I went to Aiken this evening and drove through Winter Colony Villas. There was a lovely young woman there. Cynthia something-or-other. She worried me, somehow. If she were mine, I'd get her out of there, move her someplace safe. On second thought, I wouldn't bother. Nobody's safe when there's a Babykiller in the world. I think you understand me. I remind you, stay away from Yancey. This is between you and me. See you around, Doc. And stay close to the phone.”
* * *
Larabeth stood over the phone and stared at it. I went to Aiken this evening and drove through Winter Colony Villas. There was a lovely young woman there. Cynthia something-or-other.
She could still hear Babykiller's voice, just as it had come from her phone. She didn't need to listen to the tape to remember exactly what he had said.
How could he have seen Cynthia if he was in Aiken? She should be safe in Ann Arbor, and she was scheduled to be safe in Ann Arbor for another couple of days. Only maybe she wasn't.
She checked her watch. It was nearly midnight in Aiken. There was nobody Larabeth could call at this time of night, just to inquire into the whereabouts of a low-level employee. Still, she had to know. So she reached into her bedside table, pulled out her address book, and dialed a number she'd never dialed before.
The phone only rang once, so it was clearly located on a bedside table. A male voice said, “Yeah?”
The sound of a man's voice took Larabeth by surprise and it took her a moment to regain her composure. Just as she squeaked out, “May I speak to—to Laura?”, she heard a woman's drowsy voice ask, “Who's on the phone?”
The man muttered, “Nobody, Cindy, go back to sleep,” then said into the phone, “You got the wrong number. You should be more careful, this time of night.” Then she heard the sound of a receiver crashing down and she knew her daughter wasn't safe in Ann Arbor. She wasn't safe at all.
Chapter 17
Buzz waved hello to the graveyard shift pilot, said good-night to the dispatcher, and poured himself the traditional cup of coffee he poured at the end of every shift. He had heard it said that obsessive personalities substitute one addiction for another. He figured that by giving up drugs he'd earned the right to two addictions. He'd chosen coffee and chocolate. Hershey's Kisses, actually.
He visited with the dispatcher for a moment, downed his coffee, had a couple of Kisses—maybe his last—and excused himself. Instead of going to the john, he headed out to the roof and climbed into the air rescue helicopter. Time for an unauthorized flight.
He eased into his seat, carefully avoiding the large wooden box by the door. There was a matching box by the other door. The last anonymous letter had told him to expect the boxes, that they would be in place shortly before sundown. He had hoped that they wouldn't be there, that something had gone wrong. He couldn't make this flight without the boxes. If they hadn't been there, he could hav
e gone back downstairs to shoot the breeze with the dispatcher before going home. His last hope for avoiding this flight was gone. Time to get things underway.
Lifting the thing off and following the Columbia River north, he radioed the security dispatcher at the Hanford nuclear site.
“Emergency rescue here,” he barked. “We've got a two-car smash-up near the river, just off your northwest boundary. One car's on fire. No time to waste. I'm coming across the site.”
* * *
The Hanford dispatcher thought a moment. There wasn't a lot of security risk in letting a hospital helicopter enter the site's airspace, but it wasn't standard operating procedure. Why was he getting a call from the pilot and not the dispatcher? He decided to be cautious.
“Hanford here. We read you. You may need help. I'm dispatching a copter to rendezvous with you at the point the Columbia crosses our northwestern boundary. Do you read?”
He gestured at the pilot sitting beside him, who bolted to the copter pad. This guy was trained in terrorist response. He could be in his helicopter and at the rendezvous point before the average pilot could get himself in the air.
“Thanks, Hanford, we can use all the help we can get. Out.”
* * *
Buzz felt a surge of hope. He had no idea how many security copters Hanford kept on standby, but their overcautious dispatcher had just sent one out of harm's way. He might actually get on and off the site, set his craft down, and get away alive.
He angled to the west, cutting across the northward bend in the Columbia and heading directly for his target. He could see the Hanford pilot ahead of him, already nearing the Columbia, outside the site boundary. Perfect. He reached his target and hovered over it.
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