Extinction Machine jl-5

by Jonathan Maberry

  “The name isn’t really important,” I said. “You wouldn’t have heard of it and to tell you I’d probably have to make you sign a mountain of nondisclosure papers. Do you really want to do that?”

  “No.”

  “Then let’s leave it at this: I’m not with the IRS, so that means I’m not pure evil. I am definitely not here to kill you. And I consider myself to be one of the good guys.”

  “The American flag and mom’s apple pie?” she asked skeptically.

  “My mom’s dead. She died of cancer. And … I don’t really know why I told you that.”

  “People talk to me,” she said.

  “I guess they do.” I offered my hand again. “The name’s Joe.”

  Junie considered that, her smile wavering only a little. Then she took my proffered hand.

  “Junie,” she said. Her hand was slender but strong, with long fingers and interesting calluses. Yard work, maybe. No shooter’s calluses, though.

  She looked into my eyes and something happened. There was a very sudden and very weird bit of chemistry between us that created a connection I didn’t really understand. In one split second it felt as if a door opened in my mind and Junie Flynn stepped through. Just like that she seemed to know who and what I was. I’d known other people who had a similar gift. Some of them were screeners who worked for the CIA and FBI. They didn’t need a polygraph machine because for whatever reason they were wired differently than the rest of us. Maybe they could smell subtle changes in body chemistry, maybe they could feel the vibrations of other human hearts. I didn’t know how it worked, but they were human lie detectors. And then there were some who had an even deeper level, a second and separate gift. They could look into your eyes and see who you were, your real self, down deep behind the artifice and affectation. Junie was that kind of person. I didn’t know it until we touched hands and looked into each other’s eyes. It was all so immediate, so fast. And it was like having an X-ray focused on my soul.

  There are so many things about me that I don’t show people. I am not, by any clinical definition, entirely sane. I am functionally warped as a result of the brutal attack on my girlfriend and me when we were fourteen. We both lost ourselves that day. Neither of us ever really came back. After I healed from the physical trauma I found every way possible to make myself tough. Martial arts, boxing, weights, endless reading about psychology, warfare, the physics and physiology of the destruction of the human body. As the corny saying goes, I became a weapon. My mind, though, was not something that could be sweated back to fitness in the gym any more than it was something the docs could stitch back together. My personality had become splintered and over the years a number of unique personality fragments emerged, some quite self-destructive. Others were shockingly violent. Through endless hours working with Rudy Sanchez — a doctor who became my best friend — I learned to exert control over them. I edited out most of the bad ones, but three aspects still remain. One is the Modern Man — the Civilized Man — and he’s the one who still carries the last cracked pieces of my idealism and innocence. In recent years he has taken a serious beating.

  Then there’s the Cop, and he’s the closest thing I have to a central personality. The Cop is frequently in charge. He drives the bus most of the time and that’s a good thing because he’s smart, calm, passive, sensitive, and intuitive. He’d rather solve a problem than pull a trigger.

  But the third part of me is the Warrior. Or, as he prefers to be called, the Killer. That part of me was born on that terrible day. With each stomping foot, with each punch and bash and crack he fought his way into the world. He is the skull-cracker, the neck-breaker, the eye-gouger. He is not evil, but he is not nice. The Warrior paints himself with camouflage greasepaint and crouches in the tall grass waiting for the bad guys to come by, and then he hunts them with a cruel and savage delight.

  Helen became lost in that carnival funhouse of the damaged mind, where all images of her destruction and violation were reflected in twisted and deformed mirrors. And in that darkness she became so utterly without hope that she needed to find a permanent way out.

  Which she did.

  I found her — too late. The Warrior in me rose up and screamed so loud that it broke the fragile shell of mercy that hung around his neck. There is no mercy left in him now.

  As Junie Flynn looked into my eyes I tried not to let her see any of this, but I knew that she did. Somehow, impossibly, she did.

  All in one tiny moment.

  I saw it register in her eyes. They widened a bit, and her face went death pale. I expected her to yank her hand back. To at least turn away in disgust. Instead she reached up with her other hand and touched my cheek. Despite the fact that we were strangers it was an oddly personal gesture, intimate and familiar, as if she and I shared some history beyond a few seconds of banter and verbal sparring.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  I closed my eyes.

  Her fingertips lingered for a moment and the connection was gone. When I opened my eyes, she had indeed stepped back. But it was not a retreat from me. Instead she’d stepped back into a neutral space, which was the only way we could both move forward from this moment.

  “So why are you here, Joe?” she asked in a tone that held no trace of what had just happened.

  It took me a second to find my footing, and my voice. “I … need your help to find a copy of the Majestic Black Book.”

  Her eyes flicked to the parked helicopter and back. “I don’t have it.”

  “I know.”

  “Then—”

  “I need to get a copy of it. Any copy. Today.”

  Her eyes were thoughtful, her mouth formed into a half smile, and I waited her out.

  She said, “Then I’d better make some tea.”

  With that Junie Flynn turned and went back inside, leaving the door open for me to follow. I glanced down at Ghost. He gave me a “hey, you’re the super secret agent guy; I’m just a dog” look.

  We followed her inside.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Turkey Point Lighthouse, Elk Neck State Park

  Cecil County, Maryland

  Sunday, October 20, 10:14 a.m.

  The inside of the cottage was a wonderful mess. It was clean but a long way from neat, and the way in which the living room was arranged seemed to suggest that there were at least two distinct sides to Junie Flynn. One half of the room was given over to big squashy armchairs, comfortably lumpy couches, brightly colored throw rugs, endless decorative pillows, tables piled high with art and craft magazines, a half-finished macramé bedspread, and hardwood stacked haphazardly by a massive stone fireplace still cluttered with cold ashes. Christmas lights framed the windows and ran along the edges of the walls even though this was still October. Or perhaps they were last year’s lights never taken down. The floors were polished wood covered by overlapping rugs with Navajo and Turkish weaves. A guitar stood against the hearth and various handmade instruments — a buffalo horn, a tube zither, reed pipes, tongue drums, and several brightly colored BaTonga Budima Drums. In one small glass-fronted cabinet were dozens of packs of tarot cards, some new and some very old. The decks were interspersed with crystals and semiprecious stones. Deep purple amethyst, yellow citrine, dark blue lapis lazuli that was flecked with red, golden tiger eye, watermelon tourmaline, and sky-blue turquoise. These were quality pieces and even though they were indoors they seemed to radiate light that was as rich as the bright sunshine outside.

  If that was all that I saw of this woman’s home I would not have been surprised. It was in keeping with her garden, her manner of dress, and her apparent lifestyle. A dull and unimaginative person might dismiss her as one of those soft, fringe people, a latter-day hippie, a child of the New Age.

  The other half of the room showed a different aspect of Junie Flynn; a separation so dramatic that it suggested a true dichotomy, or perhaps a mind in schism. Still too early to tell. There was a functional desk on which was a high-end ruggedized
laptop, laser printer, scanner, podcasting equipment that included a good camera on a tripod and a quality microphone. There were six steel file cabinets in a neat row, and a side table on which was a wire sorting rack filled with neatly arranged papers. The chair tucked into the desk was a leather business model similar to the kind I had in my own office. Everything was neat and precise and functional.

  Standing between the two halves of the room, almost as a deliberate bridge between them or a doorway from one to the other, was a tall bookshelf crammed with books on every subject: physics, astronomy, linguistics, symbology, politics, genetics, molecular biology, engineering, religion, and medicine. The walls directly adjacent to the bookcase were covered, floor to ceiling, with framed pictures of Egyptian cartouches, a semaphore signaler, an obviously blind woman touching the face of a child, Maori body art, strange animals carved as geoglyphs into the hardpan of a Peruvian desert, and even crop circles.

  There were two things that made me go “hmmmm.” Standing neatly side by side near the front door was a bulging suitcase; and leaning against the wall just inside the doorway was a good old-fashioned Louisville slugger.

  I nodded to the suitcase. “Planning on going somewhere?”

  “I was going to drive up to Philly, my friend just had a baby.” She was a pretty good liar, but not a great one.

  “Glad I caught you,” I said. “And the baseball bat?”

  She shrugged. “I live alone.”

  “You didn’t bring it with you when you went outside to meet me. A guy you thought was here to kill you.”

  “I didn’t really think you were here for that,” she said with a laugh.

  “Oh? What tipped you off? My boyish good looks? Crinkly blue-eyed smile?”

  She plucked at the sleeve of my Orioles shirt. “The kind of killers the government sends dress better.”

  “Hey, I’ll have you know this is a genuine 1983 World Series away-game shirt.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tippy Martinez wore this shirt when he got the save against the Phillies in game four!”

  “Tippy who?”

  “My dad gave me this shirt when I turned eighteen.”

  “Your face is turning red.”

  “Baseball,” I said, the way most people say “religion.”

  “Baseball seems like a lot of time with men standing around spitting tobacco and scratching their crotches. I like football. Things happen in football.”

  Before I could construct a properly devastating reply, Junie waved me toward the couch. “Sit.”

  “I’d like to set up a video conference call,” I said, hefting the case I’d brought. “Okay with you?”

  “Sure. You can set up on the coffee table. Just push the magazines and stuff onto the floor.” She vanished into the kitchen.

  I set the case down but instead of opening it I stepped to the far side of the living room and pulled out my cell to call Church. When he answered I said, “Where do we stand?”

  “Nothing new,” he said. “Have you made contact with the Flynn woman?”

  “With her now. She’s a bit paranoid, thought I was here to kill her.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Church. “Try not to do that.”

  “Very funny. I’ll patch you in as soon I’ve prepped her.”

  I disconnected, sat down and opened the MindReader substation. It had a powerful satellite uplink, a 128-bit cyclic encryption system, and a battery good for forty-eight hours.

  Junie came in carrying a tray of cups and fixings, which she set down on the edge of the coffee table. I covertly watched her eyes take in the sophisticated machine. Her appraisal was cool and I saw the tiniest lift of one appreciative eyebrow.

  “My tax dollars at work?”

  “Nope,” I said. “This system is privately owned and its use is loaned at no charge to Uncle Sam under very restricted circumstances.”

  Junie poured tea from a Japanese pot decorated with cherry blossoms, selected a fat slice of lemon and squeezed the juice through the steam. I accepted the cup, sniffed, took an experimental sip. The tea was far richer than I expected, and it swirled with several flavors that I could almost but not quite identify.

  “Delicious,” I said, setting the cup aside.

  “What’s your dog’s name?”

  “Ghost.”

  “Ah,” she said, nodding. “That figures.”

  “Pardon?”

  “He can see spirits. This place is haunted.”

  “Okay,” I said, mostly because how else do you reply to a comment like that? It didn’t help that Ghost sat beside the couch staring at the empty air across the room. He turned his head slowly as if watching someone idly strolling from the window to the front door. I wanted to tell him to knock it the hell off. “I thought this house was brand new. The old one burned down, right?”

  “This house is a hundred and sixteen years old. It was dismantled and brought here from Cape May, New Jersey.”

  “That sounds expensive. Why bother?”

  She looked puzzled. “Why not?”

  “Good point.”

  “So, why are you looking for the Majestic Black Book?”

  “That’s—”

  “Classified?” Her smile was very charming and a few degrees below freezing. “Have a safe flight back, Joe. I can put your tea in a travel mug.”

  “Hey, it’s not a joke. This is an actual matter of grave national importance. No bullshit.”

  She snorted.

  “You don’t believe me?” I asked.

  “You’re with the government,” she said, as if that said it all.

  “Wow, cynical.”

  “I tried naive faith in all people but that became a drag.”

  “You’re paranoid, too.”

  “I prefer the term ‘realist,’” she said. “Surely you’re not going to tell me that the government has never spied on its citizens, denied them their rights, violated their constitutional and civil rights … et cetera. You’re not going to go there, are you, Joe?”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  Ghost was watching this exchange like a spectator at a Wimbledon match.

  “Maybe I’m going about this the wrong way,” I conceded. “How’s this — I’d like to hire you as a paid consultant.”

  “A consultant on the Black Book.”

  “Sure,” I said. “On the book and where I can find a copy.”

  “Paid?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  I shrugged. “What’s your standard fee?”

  “You couldn’t afford it,” Junie said with a sour laugh.

  “I have pretty deep pockets.”

  “You still couldn’t afford it.”

  I sipped my tea. “Try me. What’s your price?”

  “The truth,” said Junie Flynn.

  “Ah … now that is expensive.”

  “And nonnegotiable.”

  “Even though this is a matter of—”

  “Grave national importance,” she finished. “Yes, you said that. But how can I believe there’s any crisis at all unless you tell me the truth?”

  I sat back and crossed my legs. “How would you know that I am telling the truth?”

  “I’d know.”

  “I’m a very good liar,” I said. “It’s a professional requirement. You know, working for the Man, and all.”

  “I’d know,” she insisted. She didn’t lay into it, she wasn’t selling it. She was telling me.

  “What? Can you read minds?”

  “Not in the way you’re thinking. It’s more empathy than telepathy. I don’t know what people are thinking, but I can tell if they’re being honest or not.”

  “That’s a useful skill.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Though often disappointing and disheartening.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  We sipped our tea.

  “Even if I can meet your price,” I said, “it doesn’t mean that I can tell you everything.”

/>   “I wouldn’t expect you to,” said Junie, “but I don’t want to be lied to.”

  “Guess I can promise that much. If there’s something I can’t say, I won’t.” I set my cup down. “So … what is it you want to know?”

  She blew out her cheeks. “Lots of things. Everything. I guess the first thing, though, is why there’s such a rush to get the Black Book? Why right now? It’s been around for years.”

  A dozen lies and two dozen variations on the truth occurred to me, but what I said was, “Someone has cooked up a pretty damn good way to extort the United States. A lot of people could die and the country would never recover. Never. Because of certain circumstances related to this matter, we believe that this is a credible threat.”

  “How does the Black Book play into that?”

  “Apparently, that’s the price to keep America safe. We obtain the book for them and they don’t make good on their threat.”

  “I thought America didn’t negotiate with terrorists.”

  “That’s really more of a guideline than a rule,” I confessed. “It’s all a matter of what kind of leverage they have. Threatening to blow up a school bus or release anthrax into a Grand Central Station is one thing. Bad as those events would be, the disaster would be, to a degree, containable.”

  “What about all those lives?”

  “We’re at war, Junie,” I said, and it hurt my mouth to say those words. “And for all practical purposes the nature of war has changed. It isn’t a matter of who can put the biggest army in the field. The Taliban taught us that, just as they taught the Russians before us. War is about threat, leverage, bribery, duplicity, subterfuge, and political gain.”

  “Wow,” she said softly, “you’re really not lying to me.”

  “No.”

  “It takes a lot to tell the truth.”

  “I get my strength through purity.”

  “Just like Lancelot.” She cocked her head to one side. “Didn’t he steal the girl and betray his best friend, though?”

  “Best not to look too closely at heroes,” I suggested. “They often have feet of clay.”

  “Very sad, but also very true.” She pursed her lips. “What kind of threat are we talking about? And using what leverage? A terrorist bomb? Anthrax?”