10 Fatal Strike

by Shannon McKenna

  He bought his gear, and donned it in the store restroom. The new-clothes stiffness and starch galled him, since his skin was still hyper-sensitive, but tough shit. He couldn’t go around naked.

  Out in his truck, he got out the waist holster for the Glock, and buckled it on. The black sweatshirt and camo jacket covered it nicely. Carrying concealed, no Oregon permit. So he was an outlaw, too.

  He gassed up the truck, and got on the road. The eastbound highway down the Gorge was dark and empty at this late hour, and the stress chemicals his body had cooked up kept his foot heavy on the gas.

  Something had changed in his head. He was feeling again, but it wasn’t shorting him out, as it had done earlier at the wedding, or even at Matilda’s funeral. He was cautiously encouraged by this. His shield stayed firm, but there was more room inside of it. It no longer felt like being locked in a Port-O-San. It breathed, and he breathed with it.

  He spent the hours it took to drive to Kolita Springs lecturing himself about not getting his hopes up. This lead could dead-end into a brick wall anytime, just like all his other leads had done.

  But Jesus, if she were still alive? And talking to him?

  That, of course, opened up a whole new can of worms. Frivolous and irrelevant, compared to the issues of life and death facing him, but bonehead that he was, he wanked on about it anyway. Those hot erotic dreams in which he’d freely indulged every horny whim his overheated imagination could cook up with the red-hot dream girl. Thinking he was just fantasizing, in blessed privacy.

  But if he hadn’t been? If she’d participated, somehow, in all of that, even telepathically? It wasn’t like he’d given her any choice.

  Thinking of it made his face eggplant purple and his cock strain in his jeans. For God’s sake. He would never be able to look the woman in the face. If she still existed.

  So much for the new, chill Miles. He was returning to his old more-or-less overwrought self.

  Once he left the larger highway, he got onto a country route that led up into the mountains, taking note of every bend in the road and structure he passed, and comparing it to the aerial view in his memory. The road turned to gravel. He crossed a narrow bridge over a dried-out river bed, a wide plain of bleached, scattered, fist-sized rocks. Easy off-roading, for a tough vehicle like his own, if he could find a good access point. He wound steadily up the hill, and spied a chain link fence with security cameras, mounted at regular intervals.

  Way out here in the boonies. How very odd.

  Dawn was lightening the sky, and he didn’t allow himself to slow down with cameras watching. Shortly after, he passed a driveway that wound up the hill, and at the top, an electronic gate. The structures inside were hidden by the contours of the hills and the thick trees, but he had memorized every one on the satellite map. There was a surprisingly large complex in there. The aerial photo had shown several vehicles parked outdoors, a small structure at the gate, a long building that might be a big car park, and a large house.

  He forced himself to drive on. The road was narrow, with a steep drop-off and no possibility of turning for miles. When he found a wide spot, he got out and stared back at the horned hill, partially obscured by the hill he’d just climbed.

  When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he drove back down to the bridge. Two tenths of a mile past it, he found a spot to offroad into the woods. He tossed the green tarp over his vehicle, and set out to snoop around. He could see the building on the hill at the point where the river’s course made a sharp right angle, where a deep gully and a dry streambed from the hill above merged with the river. Somewhat to the left of the top of the gulley and poised over a bluff of basaltic granite was the house, three stories high and expensive looking, with big terraces and picture windows overlooking the river canyon. Lights glowed in the upper stories, but what squeezed his heart was the window on the bottom floor. That floor was concrete, in contrast to the structure of wood and shingles above, and even at this distance and in the pale half light of dawn, with his hawk-vision, he could see the diagonal crosshairs of the chain link and the steel frame bolted over the window. From down here he could not see the horned hill, but up there, it would be visible. He could even individuate the trees that flanked the window.

  Just like in Edie’s drawing. Two to the right, one to the left.

  The day wore slowly on, as he poked carefully around, exploring that hill and the crest on the opposite side of the gulley, the best vantage point for spying. He had good binoculars, but saw almost as well with his own unassisted eyes. What he saw was not illuminating. Just people moving around, inside the house and out, conducting business he could not identify. He did not see Lara, or Greaves. A high-end RV was parked outside, but he did not see any other vehicles, just the long car park that could hold several.

  The fence was probably electrified, so he kept a safe distance as he hiked the perimeter. Fortunately, he still had a protein bar, a few swallows of water, some shreds of jerked elk meat. Not that he had much appetite. Too wound up.

  The hours crawled by, and as the sun’s rays started slanting in the mid-afternoon, he realized that he was stalling. He’d been hoping to hear something on the mind computer. Hoping to ask Lara about the window. Craving proof, corroboration, certainty.

  So. Looked like he’d given in completely. He was thinking of the schizo Lara in his head as a real, live entity. The nuthouse could start preparing a room for him anytime now, but first, he’d save his imaginary friend from the imaginary bad guys and get himself some goddamn imaginary satisfaction in the process.

  They could lock him up afterward. Fuck ’em.

  He was tempted to just camp out there, as convinced as he was that he’d found the place. But that would be premature. He was not ready. He wouldn’t penetrate that compound alone. It would require supplies, planning, a well considered strategy. And the help of his highly unusual friends, whom he’d been treating like ten different kinds of shit lately.

  They weren’t going to hold it against him in a situation like this, but still. He had some serious groveling to do.

  7

  Lara held herself under the jet of hot water, arms braced to stay upright. There was no separate shower stall. She had to straddle the toilet and lean to the side to wash herself in the miniscule bathroom. It was a challenge, in pitch darkness, but she was an old pro by now.

  From what that freak Greaves said, she was in for a monster dose of their hellish drug the next time. Maybe it would kill her. Certainly it would change her. And if she had that horrible guy clamped on, sliming her, oh God. She’d thought Anabel was awful, but at least Anabel didn’t desire her sexually.

  She didn’t even have a way to power dress. Nothing but the loose, limp jersey tank and matching pajama pants that appeared fresh every week in the metal drawer. No underwear. Maybe they figured underwear would incite rebellion. But she’d be damned if she’d go out to meet her fate if she wasn’t squeaky clean, hair combed, teeth brushed.

  She stayed under the hot water for hours. Afterward, she used the limp, clammy linen towel and put her clothes on, such as they were. Her hair had gotten so long. She took her time, having plenty of time to fill, in braiding her wavy hair back, winding the end with a strip of pajama fabric. And that was it. No more prep.

  She paced. Four steps forward, four steps back. Hugged her knees to her chest. Rocked. Tried to meditate. Wished she could fly away, hide in the Citadel. If only she . . .

  Wait. The thought jarred her like a shock of electricity. Greaves had gotten so excited when she’d spun out, briefly, into one of her trips. She’d come back before he’d latched onto her, but if she hadn’t, she’d have taken off into the otherworld. With him telepathically linked.

  And if she could do it then, without the injection, why not now? While she was alone, no one clamped on, breathing down her neck?

  The giddy rush of possibility made her stomach flop.

  Freedom. Of a kind, at least. Or maybe they’d finally driven her
over the edge, and this was a psychotic break. Maybe she was just so toxic from the accumulated drug, she was still high from the last injection. But who knew? If she could go, right now, at will . . . with no Anabel or Greaves piggybacking . . .

  And stay there. Just stay there for-fucking-ever. Oh God, yes.

  She lay down. Her body vibrated. She’d never be able to get herself into the right place if she was so jittery. She started relaxing every muscle, breathing deeply. She waited. Concentrated. Nothing.

  Tears of frustration streamed down her face, trickling into her ears. She did not allow herself to brush them away, as if her hands were bound. She pictured it all . . . the gurney, the needle . . .

  Suddenly, she felt it—the rush, the double vision, not that she could see in the dark. A doubled perception of darkness. The pull . . .

  Panicky joy scrambled it. Back in the flat darkness again.

  She wiped away tears of frustration, and tried again. Visualizing blinding light, buckled straps straining tight against wrists, ankles, forehead. Hu’s grim face. Anabel’s glare. The sting of the needle.

  Yes. That did it.

  The pull sucked her in, spun her through inner space. Her mind spangled that space with stars, shreds of cloud. Soaring.

  Brief glimpses. The little blond boy, his eyes huge with fear. The green duffel bag on the train, heavy with menace. The fountain, the statue, the sleepwalkers. She ignored them all, racing through the mist.

  There it was. Formidable, thick, steampunk beautiful. She no longer had to think about the choreography. It was a dance of pure joy.

  She was in, and she was never leaving this place again. Fuck them all. Let her physical body waste away in a coma or die. Who cared?

  Nobody, but nobody, could make her leave this place.

  Miles swerved on the road, and corrected, his heart pounding. That Lara dream again, running even while his eyes were wide open and staring through the windshield at westbound Interstate I-84, right after the Gresham exit. Her graceful form danced inside his inner sanctum. Not a dream, or a fantasy. He could feel her, fierce and bright. Intensely female. A palpable sensation. Not an unpleasant one. By no means.

  He waited, breathless and tense, for her to get around to typing a message. Trying to ignore his body’s stupid animal reaction to this cerebral form of intimacy. The road rushed by. His teeth ground. His heart thudded.

  u there? she finally tapped out, after an agonizing interval.

  where the fck have u been? It pounded out of him, pressurized. iv been w8ting 4 hours!

  There was a pause, then, 4 me?? u told me I wsn’t even real!

  but u r real, right? he demanded.

  yes unfortunately

  good thats settled then he typed. u in trouble?

  yes

  locked up?

  yes

  ok then let’s stop fucking around and get u out of there. I cant take this shit anymore

  There was a tooth-grinding pause, and then, wow. what a switch. i have whiplash now. ur sweet but I don’t think its possible

  Sweet, his ass. let me b the judge of that he pounded out. just give me data to crunch

  thats the thing. no data. I’m locked in a cell. outside there r hills. they shoot me up every night. thats when I visit u.

  experiments? psi-max? he queried.

  ive heard them call it that

  u high on it now?

  no. this is the first time ive flown w/o the drug. dont know if its good or bad. maybe im just crazy now.

  join the club he told her. i dont care. give me info.

  like what?

  anything for fck sake he replied. where r u? who do u c?

  mostly anabel and hu she replied. theyre the main ones

  He whistled. anabel? hot blond psychopath? late 20s?

  blond yes. dont know how hot she is. she’s cold 2 me.

  tell me about hu.

  1st name Jason. asian, late 30s, med height, buzzed hair, wire rim glasses. wife leah has esophageal cancer

  wow he told u that?

  no I saw it on a drug trip. the drug makes me c things.

  He considered that for a moment. yikes

  shes having a big operation early 2mrrw morning. hu tried to get time off from head honcho. no go. hu has 2 b there 4 my megadose xtravaganza. 2mrrw morning early. brrr

  time off from who?

  thaddeus greaves she typed. met him today. scary guy.

  He ground his teeth in impotent anger. Bastard. Stonewalling him all along. that lying butthead. I knew he was dirty

  u know the guy? how do u know all this? who r u?

  L8r 4 me. lets focus, he told her. u ok?

  He sensed the irony somewhere, as if she’d let out a crack of cynical laughter in his head. ok? what does that even mean?

  forget i said it, he typed hastily. where’s the wife’s operation?

  who knows? west of the rockies? just guessing tho. hospital name is Good Samaritan but every 2nd city in America has a Good Sam hsptl

  lets narrow it down he typed. give me a picture of hu

  A blank pause, and then what?

  picture. photo he prompted. remember those?

  how? He could feel her bafflement vibrating in his body.

  send it via the computer he told her.

  ?? she typed.

  He lost his patience. jesus lara ur the visual artist. look down. c the digital camera. I visualized one 4 u. pretend ur taking a pic of hu. attach cable to USB port behind computer. download.

  u can do that?

  fuck no! none of this is possible! We r crazy, remember? that hasnt held us back so far! play with the analogs! use it! do it!!!

  stop shouting she typed primly. Silence for a moment, and then a hot pink Hello Kitty camera? seriously? lmao

  He was embarrassed about the pink camera, but his mind had seized on the first small digital camera in his memory banks, which was Cindy’s. sorry u dont like it shut up and take the picture

  He wanted to cheer, a minute later or so when a multimedia message flashed on his inner screen. He clicked on it. A photo filled the screen. It worked. Holy shit, it actually worked. Lara rocked.

  Jason Hu had sallow skin, a thin mouth. Miles memorized his sour mug as another message icon flashed. Anabel, minus her mind-bending sexual glow. Without it, she looked like what she truly was. A bloodthirsty hell bitch. She should’ve been beautiful, but wasn’t, not with those fixed, staring eyes, the tense jaw, the flattened mouth.

  dont c the point with no fix on location Lara told him.

  Miles imagined sending an image of the horned hill. click on that

  omg! that is what i see outside the window! wtf?

  ur in central Oregon he wrote. near Kolita Springs

  how the hell did u find that out?

  He tried not to feel smug. L8r he typed again. Time enough later to explain about Matilda, her photo. Her murder. Painful revelations could wait. They had to stay crystal clear and focused.

  what r u going 2 do now? she asked.

  not sure yet he typed. improvising. driving, now. signing off to go do some hacking on leah. u sticking around in here?

  u could not pry me out.

  He felt absurdly pleased. good. hang out. chill. while ur here, make a list of everything that might help me. take pictures, draw floor plans. put it together 4 me. help me 2 help u.

  ok one thing tho

  ?? he queried.

  who r u?

  my name is miles he told her. more L8r ttyl

  He wrenched his mind away. Time to face the real world.

  The shift was jarring. The mental computer did not assault his senses the way the physical world did. Besides. He liked talking to her.

  He could use a shower, after the day of strenuous hiking, but he was like a hound on the scent, now. He drove straight to Good Sam, and cruised the hospital campus until he found what he was looking for. A Starbucks, close enough to be a hospital staff hangout and caffeine refuel station. A quic
k search on his smartphone had revealed that there were hundreds of Good Sams all over the country, just as Lara had said, many of them specializing in cancer care and/or gastroenterology. But there was one right here in Portland, too, and if Lara’s keeper worked at the complex where Miles had been sniffing around all day, chances were good to excellent that the guy’s wife’s surgery was here.

  He set up shop in the Starbucks. Ordered a few sandwiches from the stuff displayed at the counter, and a soda. Glucose, for his hungry brain. The food slipped right down. It felt good to feed honest hunger again. The furnace inside him had finally fired up and demanded fuel.

  He was counting on fate to help him improvise a strategy, and halfway through his second cranberry scone, fate delivered. A tired, white-coated doctor came in and got himself a beverage. He sat down at the table not far from Miles, sucking on his coffee while pulling out his tablet, tapping into it. Miles was at the ready, and when the guy tried to connect to the Starbucks wifi, his device was lured by the siren signal of Miles’ computer instead. The guy got frustrated, frowning and tapping, but not before Miles had capured the crucial pcaps.

  He got right to it, analyzing with the software that he’d developed with Aaro last year. He teased out the username and password of Dr. Walter Milhausen, cardiologist, then logged remotely onto the hospital’s system and poked around until he found the OR calendar. Meanwhile Dr. Milhousen cursed, stabbing and swiping at his tablet, in vain. Bummer for him.

  There was a Leah Halpert scheduled for tomorrow. Thirty-six years old. Gastro surgery at six A.M. Halpert, Hu. She was the right age. The names were different, but it would be weirder if Hu did share a name with his wife, considering what he was.

  By the time the cardiologist had given up and stomped out of the coffee shop in disgust, Miles had scanned and memorized the names of the staff who would be attending her, and trolled the patient database for Leah Halpert’s home address. Kolita Springs.