“Thanks.” Clark kissed her blond hair. “Is that ready, Bails?”
Bailey turned off the burner. He set the sizzling pan on the island trivet. Clark slid the breadboard beside it. He grabbed Sher’s wine and handed it to her but she didn’t drink. She leaned over the island and lifted Laylea and her towel off.
“Your father has a huge heart. We wouldn’t have kept Woodford or Laylea if it were up to me.” Sher rubbed her cheek against the dog’s head. Clark wrapped his arms around her. “We wouldn’t have kept you.”
Laylea watched Bailey. She knew her job. She knew Sher would only be holding her if she needed Laylea’s comfort. But she wanted to be in her brother’s arms. The calm, thoughtful blue eyes welled with tears. But they dried up as his jaw clenched. He threw the hot mitt onto the counter behind him and turned back around to face his parents.
“So, Hardknock, the nameless guy, all these new victims as you said, their pain is all my fault.”
“No.” Sher’s head popped up. “Why would you ever think that?”
“You quit fighting to keep me safe.”
Sher pushed out of Clark’s arms. “You didn’t tell him that.”
“No. I would never.”
Laylea barked.
“Yeah. You guys used to talk in front of Laylea.” Bailey laughed. “Hardknock would never have hurt her if I hadn’t been born.”
“And Walter might have captured her if we weren’t here to take her in,” Clark slammed a hand on the counter.
Sher let Laylea hop to the counter. “And Woodford would have died on the side of the road if I hadn’t become a vet instead of a vigilante.” She circled the island to Bailey. “I don’t regret choosing you.”
“How many soldiers has Jay rescued?”
“Conditioned Forces,” Sher corrected. “They’re not soldiers. They’re not responsible for what’s been done to them.”
“No, Mom. I am.” Bailey tore on, refusing to be interrupted. “How many CF has Jay rescued? How many have evaded rescue? How many never even survived the conditioning? You will not kill another soul today,” he sang the words off key. “How many people have your CF killed since you ran away to keep me safe?”
Laylea trotted around the hot pan and plates. She stood on the edge of the counter, leaning at Bailey. He refused to look at her.
“It upsets you that they’re still using your work to hurt people? You could stop them but you don’t.”
Laylea leaped from the counter. Bailey caught her easily as he pushed past his mother and out through the swinging door.
Sher followed him. “Bailey.”
“I’m going for a walk.”
Clark held the door. “It’s raining.”
“I need to go for a walk.”
“Sure, but it’s raining.”
“If I catch a cold Mom’ll fix me.” Bailey grabbed his slicker from the coat tree.
Sher hushed Clark with a hand. “We don’t want you out alone.”
“I’m not alone.” He turned and gestured with his sister in crane hold. “I have Laylea. She’d never dream of using me as an excuse to do nothing.” He wrapped her in the slicker, jangling the bells as he pulled the door open. “It’s funny. The only person in the world I trust is a dog.”
The bells rang again when the screen door slammed behind him.
Clark let the kitchen door flap shut. “It’s raining.”
“I think it’s worse than that, Theta.”
“Lightning?”
“An angry untrained teenage witch with unfathomable strength has just gone for a walk with magic on the mind.”
“Yeah. But Laylea’s with him.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Blue light glowed off Trask’s face. The reflection in her glasses effectively hid her eyes but the starkness of her scarring made clear how unhappy she was with the chart on her screen. The drawn curtains bathed the office in a mustard hue. Earbuds lay dangling from the far cabinet where Trask had hurled them after testing a new brainwaves focus training CD produced by her soon-to-be culled Practical Applications division.
Trask punched numbers into a physical calculator and recreated the chart on a legal pad in case her scientists were playing congress with the graphics. But the straight data told the same unlikely story.
She slammed the keyboard tray into position and pounded out a memo to her newest Head of Behavior Reinforcement for an immediate in-person review of all returned CF followed by a memo, less forcefully typed, to the Ops Commander to recall all current CF. Again. The percentage of returns had changed dramatically following the last directorate-ordered recall. Unless Gamma Subject had died, and no CF had reported either killing him or finding the body, she couldn’t think of a reasonable explanation. Sure, her teams could have finally improved on Coogan’s techniques but Trask had hired each of them and she didn’t find that a reasonable explanation at all.
A trumpet sounded from Trask’s phone signaling three o’clock. Trask activated the intranet just long enough to send her stack of memos and download the day’s reports. She disconnected from the server at two minutes after. Any reports not uploaded to the internal server by three or too large to download in two minutes would be considered late and all employees in the division would have their paychecks docked one percentage point, the rate increasing with each subsequent failure. This negative reinforcement continued despite much positive response because it provided Trask with a salary savings she could apply to security enhancements. No, by far the much more effective reinforcement had been removing all coffee supplies from the break room until the division achieved seven days’ compliance.
Fluorescent light flooded the Biotech Research office from the overheads.
“Whoops.”
Walter hit the electrical pad again and the fluorescents were substituted with a softer yellow-hued glow from torchiere lamps in the corners of the room.
“He’s off.” Walter twitched the curtain shut behind himself and Bayard. He danced to the far corner and locked Bayard into his kennel. “That’s a good boy.” He spun to address his side of the desk and plopped down, feet on the forgotten yellow legal pad. “Does it feel like this every time you send a subject off on his final test? I’m giddy as a schoolgirl. I was homeschooled of course. Had no sisters. Are all schoolgirls giddy? It seems unlikely. But if they are, what is it that they are so giddy about? We discover the answer to that and how to imbue it in your volunteers, and everyone else, no more need for soldiers.” He kicked off the edge of the desk and spun around. “My boy is off.” He leapt from the seat to hang his knapsack on its hook and grab a bottle of iced tea from the dorm fridge hidden in his paper closet. He filled Trask’s delicate Turkish tea glass and tapped it with the neck of the bottle. “To Felix 244.”
“Walter. Do you remember we discussed how you are to behave when I am working with the lights off?”
“I know,” thinking nothing very loudly, Walter scanned the post-it notes delineating the line where Walter’s side of the desk was to stop. He put a finger on one and whispered, “that you have a migraine when the lights are off and I should be gentle.”
He spun away from the desk and tiptoed back to the doorway. The metal slider of the privacy curtain jangled when he slid it aside.
“Shh.” He held a finger to his lips, admonishing the curtain.
The torchiere lights faded.
Walter used extreme care shutting the curtain. He tried to manually muffle the apparatus.
“Thank you.”
Walter propped a butt cheek on the side of the desk. “What’s got you stressed?”
Trask closed the folder of reports on her screen. She tore the chart she’d hand drawn from the pad and handed it to him. “Do you know what that is?”
“This is chart.”
Trask ripped it out of his hands. She slammed it on the desk. “This is a chart showing our subject rate of return is increasing. Most of the soldiers we send out are actually coming back. 397a has returned sev
en times.”
Walter cocked an eyebrow. “That sounds like progress. Felicitations?”
Her chair rolled to a stop before it hit her cabinets. Trask glared at the hated birds on their curtains. She tried to ignore the earthy scent wafting from the dog crate. “We went from a nearly ten percent rate of return to seventy statistically overnight.”
Walter folded his hands. “I reviewed my doctoral thesis and all the related course notes but I didn’t find statistics terribly entertaining. Perhaps you can tell me why an increased return is bad?”
Trask clicked her way to the cabinet and unfolded the doors. “You began acting strange after you stopped searching for your dogs. Dr. Jones has refused to report to me on the final visit except to say it was a beautiful day. Was she ever out of your sight on that trip?”
“I’m sure we had separate hotel rooms.” Walter waggled his brows.
“You did. Did she do any activities on her own, without you, other than sleeping?”
“I.” He faltered. “I’d have to check my notes.”
“Please.” Trask leaned her back against the map. “Go ahead.”
Walter stood. He approached the undisturbed yellow legal pad. He reached for it and noticed a sliver of dirt under his index nail. He cleaned it out with the thumb of the opposite hand and then examined the rest of his nails. “Oh, Bayard, hush. Trask has a headache.” His eyes returned to the yellow paper but his legs walked him over to the cage. “You know, I really should take him out. He’s been in testing all day. All sorts of bloodwork and CT scans. Must be simply dreadful.”
“Walter.” Trask didn’t move. “Check your notes first. Your plans for that trip were to start in Hatch and end in Foothills. Is that where you went?” She turned and pointed to the area on the map. “Is there any chance you and Jones ventured into the mountains for a day of hiking?”
Walter laughed gaily. “Oh Trask, you dear. I don’t hike.”
“Jones says you do.”
His face dropped.
“I think you went hiking on that trip.” Trask examined the map. “I think you went hiking and ran into Gamma Subject. He figured out you were from the Consortium and he conditioned you to forget everything. He didn’t do as good a job with Jones so you were probably first. Now he’s reconditioning my soldiers and sending them home to spy on us.” She spun to see Walter’s face drained of color. “Where did you go hiking, Walter?”
Walter dropped to the cage. He squeezed Bayard’s prong collar over his head. “Ask the returning soldiers.”
“We’re going to. But you’re here now, Walter. Gamma Subject is somewhere in these mountains and he’s getting more dangerous. Walter, where did you meet him?”
“Ask Nicole.” Walter stood. He led Bayard around the desk. Trask cut him off at the curtain.
“She’s going into interrogation as soon as she returns from vacation.” Trask stroked Walter’s arm. “Something happened to you, Walter. Gamma messed with your brain. Don’t you want to help us catch him? If we don’t catch him, he’s gonna get Felix 244.”
Walter stumbled away from her. He glanced at the yellow legal pad on the desk. In one unbalanced lunge, he grabbed the pad off the desk and shoved past her and out the door. All the way down the hall he could be heard screaming, “I know nothing!”
The Director chewed on a slab of Oberto Jalapeño bacon jerky. The reports on Trask’s reconditioning of 397a from Snickers to jerky had set an itch in his taste buds. He zoomed in on the map with Trask’s notations of the region Walter and Dr. Jones had been visiting. An overlay of plastic covered the map and the good scientist had already begun tracing the routes taken by any CF who ventured into that area. One of the two lines indicated his man had visited the compromised wilderness. She would rightly wish to terminate or re-wipe all CF with indications of tampering. He would have to devise a way to prevent that without a direct order. He must also assure that Gamma Subject survived capture. He might answer the questions Coogan’s coded notes did not. If he had figured out how to recondition the CF, couldn’t they train a CF specifically to recondition Gamma?
The Director swiped to blank screens. He was getting too involved in the Biotech drama. He should reconsider this vacation home business. He wasn’t prepared for field work. He buzzed for his assistant.
“Yes, sir.”
“Schedule me a sit down with the Netherlands’ Biotech Supervisor.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get me a status update on the Foothills remote site.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And find me a glass of milk.”
“Sir?”
“A glass of milk, please. As soon as humanly possible.”
The Director cut the connection. He wiped the tears from his eyes as he pulled up Random Selection and let hundreds of feeds paint the room in a cacophony of voices.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“No!”
Bailey flung an arm out. Laylea dodged out of the way when the arm fell to the bunched up comforter.
“Don’t touch him!” The scream rasped out of his throat in a mumbled whisper but Laylea knew what he was saying because he wailed the same thing almost every night. “Don’t touch Davis!”
She didn’t know if he was telling Parker to not pull out the stick or if he was yelling at himself. He wouldn’t talk about the dreams. She’d shown him the book that said it would help but he wouldn’t talk to her. He suffered her snuggles. He appreciated when she was able to wake him up. But he wouldn’t talk.
Clark and Sher never heard his nightmares. Usually they were sound asleep when the dreams came. But this was a powwow day and they’d gotten up well before the sun. They’d have heard him for sure if they weren’t downstairs already. Woodford’s hearing was so bad now he probably hadn’t heard even though Laylea smelled him lying right outside the bedroom door. If he thought his boy was unhappy he’d have been scratching to get in.
Laylea climbed onto Bailey’s chest. She licked the tears from his cheeks and tumbled off to clean the streaks leading to a small pool in his ear. She would have let him sleep but a commotion on the stairs made Woodford bark. Bailey stirred. She kicked him in the throat and dropped into an innocent ball of dog in the curve of his shoulder.
“Happy Adoptionversary, Laylea!” Sher and Clark yelled outside the door.
Bailey wiped at his eyes. “Come on in.” He wrapped his hands around Laylea and held her in the air as their parents hopped onto the bed. “Happy Tenth, Laylea.”
“Happy Eleventh.” Clark leaned in and lay a zerbert on her belly. “Are you still doing Bailey’s math homework?”
Laylea barked twice.
“Tenth adoptionversary.” Bailey hopped out of bed to lift Woodford up.
“She’s been with us for eleven years, kiddo.”
“Which makes this the tenth time we’ve celebrated the anniversary of her adoption.”
Sher set the traditional peanut butter, oatmeal, tuna muffin on the bed and handed Bailey a spoon to share the bread pudding his father had already begun devouring. “Save us from Bailey logic.”
Laylea struggled out of her brother’s arms to get to the giant muffin before Woodford ate it all. She buried her face in the food because she thought it would make Bailey laugh. It did. Especially when Woodford licked muffin from Laylea’s head. She spun on her tail and chewed at his neck. Undisturbed, her brother kept picking pieces of tuna from her fur.
“Thanks Woodford, she needs a bath.” Clark handed the bread pudding to Bailey. “Here, Bails, you’re gonna need your strength to keep up with your mom today.”
“We’ve got four days of fun planned.”
“I wish you were going to the cabin.” Clark massaged Woodford’s old hips.
“We’ll keep the magic indoors,” Sher reassured him. “I can’t leave town with Armando operating on Moe tomorrow. If it were any other dog.”
“I know. Nick’s a friend.”
Bailey licked the bread pudding bowl. “Armando’s
a qualified vet now.”
“He is. But I’ve got more experience. If something goes wrong I want him to know he can reach me.”
“Shouldn’t Laylea stay home then too?”
The adoptionversary girl leapt for her paper and pencil on the dresser that acted as Bailey’s headboard.
“Lee can’t help with an unconscious dog. But she can help keep your father safe.”
Laylea woofed through her pencil. She’d written Copilot. She kept writing, magic dangerous.
Sher frowned, taking the sparkling clean bowls away from Woodford and Bailey. “Magic isn’t dangerous.”
Laylea scratched out Bailey’s.
“That’s it, you fat little loaf of bread.” Bailey grabbed her pencil and raised it like a wand. “I’m turning you into a newt.”
Laylea sang out and dove for the comforter. She belly crawled through the mess of blankets to hide behind Woodford.
“Right.” Clark scooped both dogs off the bed. “No newting my copilot. We’ll be back late tomorrow. Enjoy your day of hooky.”
“It’s not really playing hooky if I’m getting homeschooled, Dad.”
“Oh, my poor little witch boy.” Clark pounced on Bailey. Laylea leaped back up to the bed and bounded over. When Clark had him pinned down, she grabbed his t-shirt with her teeth and dragged it up far enough for the dad to zerbert his belly.
After the plane was unpacked and repacked, the goods delivered and paid for, after she ran around the grassy meadow with Mickey like they were still little girls, Laylea lay in Bela’s lap beside the fire. The old woman complained that her arthritis bothered her in the wet weather. But Laylea thought she just liked watching Jay’s knife skills. Everyone else got to gather and clean and stir. But she kept Jay chopping everything.
Clark gathered one last surprise from the cockpit safe before he joined the campfire. He called loudly as he crossed the meadow, aiming his cry at Maggie and Trey’s tent, the farthest from the campfire. “Mail call. Everyone who wants mail, report to the campfire. Mail for everyone.”
WereHuman - The Witch's Daughter: Consortium Battle book 1 (Wyrdos) Page 24
