Rogue Oracle

by Unknown

Tara stepped out of the kitchen into the garage. Lock-ley’s shop was tossed. The Chimera had fled, taking with him whatever he needed to escape. This wasn’t the organized, careful cleanup she’d seen at Lena’s. He’d been rushed. Veriss had not been part of his plan.

  She fingered a smudge of blood on the edge of the table. The Chimera was hurt. Maybe Lockley had hurt him. Or maybe whatever Anderson’s DNA expert had predicted was coming to pass: the Chimera was dying.

  Tara’s mouth thinned. She knew where he was going. Her dream of the Tower had told her that much.

  He was going home.

  She threaded her way through the house, back out into the front yard to find Harry.

  Harry was pacing the front wheelchair ramp, growling into his cell phone. Neighbors were peering through their blinds at the man in the radiation suit. The postman glanced at him, looked at the fistful of mail in his hand. He stuffed it back in his bag and kept on walking.

  By the volume on the other end, she could tell Harry was getting an ass-chewing from someone. He glanced up when he saw her, hung up.

  “Well?” he said, his tone clipped and impatient.

  “Our killer. He’s going back to Chernobyl,” she insisted. “We’ve got to catch him. I’ll explain on the way.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  DEVOURING THE deliveryman had been difficult, and he did not finish the job.

  Galen had not been much interested in the voices in the deliveryman’s head. The deliveryman’s memories were of insignificant things: schedules and routes, family birthdays, grocery lists, a beat-up paperback novel stowed behind his seat he was reading on breaks. It was a comforting, banal chatter in his head, bits of ordinary life that Galen had never experienced.

  But there were some useful nuggets to be gleaned.

  Galen had pulled the truck off the road in a discount store parking lot ten miles from Lockley’s house. He’d dug in the cab of the truck for a flashlight, grabbed his duffel bag, and gone to the back of the truck. He climbed inside and shut the door.

  The driver lay, still unconscious, on the floor. His breath was weak and thready, and a lump was beginning to swell oddly on the back of his head. Galen sat back on his heels, swept his light around. At eye level was a box that had originated from Tokyo. Galen considered this, scratching under the mask. He needed to get home. And he knew, through Veriss, that the U.S. government agents were close on his heels. They were watching the airports, scanning for radioactive isotopes at the security gates. He would be unable to pass through security without tripping the Geiger detectors, unable to claim his plane ticket.

  There had to be another way.

  He stripped the deliveryman of his uniform, cast his clothes away. He pressed his hand to the man’s chest, felt his heart twitching under his shirt. Galen closed his eyes. His hand slipped down into the deliveryman’s chest, and he felt the heart against his fingers. The deliveryman’s memories swept past him like blood, and he learned about the package from Tokyo. The delivery service had a hub at Dulles. Packages went in and out at a frenetic pace, under very little supervision.

  Galen smiled.

  Under his hand, the heart stilled. The deliveryman’s voice drained away, and the air escaped from his lungs with a sigh. Galen pulled back, but his fingers were meshed in the man’s ribs just as surely as if they’d grown there. The deliveryman’s flesh stretched smooth and flawless over the bones of Galen’s fingers.

  Galen cast about, dug in the man’s pockets. He found a ballpoint pen and a box cutter. Holding the flashlight in his teeth, Galen cut around the perimeter of the man’s chest, where he supposed his fingers might be. The cheap blade skipped and nicked bone, and Galen ultimately broke the blade point on the sternum.

  But he freed himself. He pulled away a mass of flesh connected to his wrist, hissing. It hurt, but he could feel his cells sluggishly trying to reorganize, trying to shut off blood vessels and reform bone.

  Cradling his arm in his other elbow, he bound it in his own shirt. His flesh was lumpy from the other assimilations. He was healing more and more slowly. He scrubbed his tongue across the uneven teeth that belonged to the dog and hadn’t fallen out yet. He was disintegrating. But he was not finished. He needed to get home, to complete his mission.

  And the deliveryman had provided him a way to get past security.

  He dressed slowly in the deliveryman’s uniform. The cap made the silicone on his skin sweat, but there was no help for it. He used a bit more glue from Lockley’s materials to hold his nose in place. He added the deliveryman’s sunglasses, flipped his ID badge around. Passable for cursory inspection, he decided. If anyone were to look at his ID, he’d be found out. With any luck, he wouldn’t need it.

  Galen found the largest box on the truck, opened it. Inside was a large stuffed toy: a unicorn. He scooped it out and stuffed the deliveryman inside the box. He resealed the tape on the top of the box and stacked others on top. The mangled body would be found, but not right away.

  He exited the back of the truck with the unicorn under his arm and headed for the cab of the truck. He saw, across the parking lot, a young girl watching him while her mother unloaded her shopping cart. The mother was distracted, yapping into her cell phone, and did not notice Galen’s approach.

  Galen walked across the pavement, his gait slow but improving. Without a word, he handed the toy to the girl, who hugged it to her chest and smiled widely.

  Pretty child, he thought. Too bad that her world wouldn’t last.

  Galen climbed back into the truck and cranked the ignition. He drove the truck to the airport, followed the deliveryman’s memory to the shipping entrance. He parked his truck at the back of the line, hopped out. Galen lost himself in the bustle of boxes and crates being screened for loading, walked across the tarmac into the open bays where carts waited, heavy with packages. No one stopped him as he walked through the freight terminal to the passenger terminal, wearing Lockley’s face and the delivery-man’s uniform.

  He paused to duck into the men’s room. He unzipped his duffel bag in an unoccupied stall. He changed quickly into Lockley’s clothes, put Lockley’s straw hat over his head. He wadded the deliveryman’s uniform back into the bag, slung it over his shoulder. Pausing to admire his reflection in the mirror on the way out, he marveled at his handiwork. Lockley had truly earned his reputation as a disguise master when he’d been alive.

  Ambling slowly back into the hallway, he examined the computerized schedules posted on the wall. He was careful to keep his wounded hand in his pocket, away from prying eyes. People flowed around him, ignoring him. Many had recently come from security screening on the other side of the terminal, reorganizing carry-on bags and computers, adjusting their shoes. Galen had bypassed it entirely by entering through the freight terminal, avoided the close scrutiny and Geiger counters that would have given him away.

  He saw what he wanted: his flight to Rome, leaving in an hour. He took his time getting to his gate, limped up to the flight attendant’s desk.

  “I believe you have an electronic ticket waiting for me,” Galen said. He pushed a slip of paper containing his confirmation number across the desk.

  The attendant punched some keys on her computer. “Boarding’s already begun, and all I have left are aisle seats, sir. Will that be all right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The attendant handed Galen a paper ticket. “Enjoy your trip, sir.”

  Galen turned his silicone lips upward. “Thank you, miss. I’m sure that I will.”

  “WHERE DO WE FIND HIM?”

  Stress crackled in Harry’s voice as he cradled his cell phone in one hand and sawed the steering wheel in rush-hour beltway traffic with the other. The strobe light perched on top of the car did little to part traffic, and Harry was zipping down the shoulder.

  The seatbelt jerked against Tara’s shoulder, and she struggled to keep her cards from spilling off her lap. She’d told Harry what she’d pieced together about the Chimera’s power, that he
was much more than the scientific oddity they’d believed him to be. He was a monster.

  Harry didn’t dwell on the philosophical or scientific ramifications of what she suggested. Instead, he charged into action to keep the future from unfolding, leaving the sticky questions of the past for later. “We’ve got three airports in the immediate vicinity with international departures—Baltimore, Ronald Reagan, and Dulles has reopened. Can we at least narrow it down?”

  “I’m not the Magic Eight Ball,” Tara snapped. “I’m working on it. You know, from a mundane perspective, it might be easier to just detain anyone with a Ukrainian passport.”

  They were en route to Dulles on the assumption that since the Chimera had been here before, he’d return the same way. But they couldn’t be sure. A red string of taillights showed the congested path to the terminal.

  Harry covered the mouthpiece on his phone. “I’m trying.” He spoke back into the mouthpiece. “Yeah, we’ve determined that the radiation contamination is specific, from Chernobyl. Scanning those passengers isn’t enough … Yeah, well, fuck you, too. This is a national security threat, you asshole. You want me to call the press? I’m certainly happy to let them know that the administrator of Dulles International Airport is willing to expose his passengers to some nicely warmed-over cesium—”

  She plucked four cards from the deck, muttering to herself and trying to focus. She picked the Ace of Cups, the Eight of Cups, the Six of Swords, and the Fool. The Fool was number zero in the Major Arcana.

  “Search for any flight or plane combinations of these four digits: one, three, six, zero,” Tara interrupted. Her fingers lingered on the Fool. She’d seen him recently, and was surprised to see him again. Something about the card bothered her, but she couldn’t figure out what.

  She pulled another card from the deck, the Chariot. It showed an armored man charging forward, pulled by two horses. It was a card of fast movement, of relentless pursuit of one’s goals.

  “Flights leaving soon,” she amended. “Our Chimera is on the move.”

  Harry hung up on Dulles. “He won’t ground any more flights. If we can get a description of a suspect, he’ll have the suspect detained. But that prick won’t allow any more delays to his fucking timetables. DHS is screening all passengers going through security with Geiger counters; if he’s hot, they’ll stop him.”

  “I can’t conjure up a description. The cards don’t work that way.” She showed him the Chariot. “He’s making fast progress. I don’t think that security has caught him.”

  “There are four flights leaving in the next fifteen minutes from Dulles with those number combinations,” Harry said. “One to Texas, one to Oregon, one to Mexico City, and one to Rome.”

  “Rome,” Tara said automatically. “That has to be our flight.”

  Harry pulled the car into the passenger drop-off area, left it parked in the fire lane. He flashed his badge and elbowed through the crowd. Tara struggled to keep up with him, swimming in the mass of people. He paused at security to argue with the DHS personnel. Someone recognized him and waved him back. They took off running to the gate from which the Rome flight was leaving. By the departure board, it was taking off in minutes.

  Tara scanned the crowd, heart pounding. The Chimera had to be here, somewhere. She had no idea what he looked like—or what he would look like after playing with Lockley’s disguises. How would she know him if she saw him? Would he look like the World in her dreams?

  They sprinted down the people movers, past students with their backpacks, business travelers with stuffed briefcases, and families with children. Her attention snagged on a familiar face in the crowd. A dark-haired young man in a denim jacket, carrying a backpack, met her gaze. His eyes widened.

  Tara recognized him. Zahar Mouda, the kid who had been accused of trafficking in dangerous chemicals. The Fool.

  Tara shouldered past the passengers to get to him. She had questions, starting with: What the hell are you doing outside of detainment?

  Zahar’s eyes met hers. He turned on his heel and ran.

  Tara chased him, yelling at him to stop. The kid was fast, zagging right and left like a linebacker through the crowded field. Through the gaps in the crowd, she saw him dig a cell phone out of his jacket. He stabbed the buttons on the phone furiously.

  Tara tackled him, trying to wrest the phone out of his grip. They fell down in a tangle of limbs, the phone spiraling away under feet on the concourse. Tara reached for it.

  A thunderous boom rocked the terminal, echoed by screams. Dust rained down overhead as the building shook. Tara covered her head with an arm, keeping the other firmly wound in Zahar’s collar. She smelled smoke.

  It was as she’d feared. The son of a bitch had an ignition device.

  Klaxons sounded overhead and emergency lights began to flash. Tara spat hair and dust out of her mouth and shook Zahar’s collar. She dragged him away from the stampede of feet, near a drinking fountain.

  “What the hell did you do?” she screamed at him.

  Zahar stared at her with a belligerent glare. “Revenge. Revenge for what your people have done to mine. I want you to feel what we feel.”

  Zahar was suddenly yanked out from beneath her hands. Harry hauled him up and slammed him into the wall. “What kind of bomb was that?” he yelled. “What was in it? Chemicals? Nerve agents?”

  Tara’s breathing quickened.

  Zahar spat in his face. “Plenty of things that glow in the dark.”

  The lights flickered overhead. Tara saw that planes were still taking off behind the glass windows. Tara paused, staring through the glass at a plane taxiing down the runway. Over the klaxons, her intuition was screaming at her. She advanced upon the glass, wiped away the dust to see more clearly. The glass still held some vibration from the blast, quivering under her hands.

  Her hands balled into fists when she saw the number painted on the side of the plane: 1860.

  GALEN KNEW THAT SOMETHING WAS WRONG WHEN THE plane lurched into the sky.

  He’d settled into his seat, beside a woman with a dachshund in a carry-on bag. The dog pressed its nose to the mesh ventilation holes, staring and whining at Galen. Perhaps she could smell some of Lockley’s dog on him.

  “I think she likes you,” the woman in the next seat said.

  Galen smiled through his silicone lips, careful to keep them over his uneven teeth.

  The pilot was waddling the plane down to the runway, chatting banally about the DC heat and how lovely Rome was this time of year.

  From the direction of the terminal, a boom echoed. Excited chatter rattled in the cabin. In the middle of the pilot’s estimating flight time, the radio cut off.

  Galen tensed. Had he been found? Would they stop the plane and drag him away?

  The passengers craned over to peer through the windows on the terminal side. Galen looked over the shoulder of the woman with the dog to see a plume of gray rising in the distance.

  The pilot’s voice crackled over the radio. “Please stay in your seats and stay calm.”

  At the admonishment to stay calm, panic broke out. The woman beside Galen clutched the pet carrier and sobbed.

  The plane rolled down the runway and gained speed. In moments, the plane bounced into the air, the landing gear bumping back into the belly of the plane. The plane took a long, curving climb in the sky.

  Looking down through the window, Galen could see flames emanating from the main terminal. Fire trucks swarmed into view, lights flashing.

  “Oh my God,” Galen’s seatmate whispered. “What is that?”

  Galen squinted at the fire until they’d climbed above the cloud cover. He didn’t answer, but he thought he knew: it was someone’s revenge. He didn’t know who, but someone was taking their own vengeance on the world. He could relate.

  He leaned back in his seat. He let the voices wash over him, the mutterings about bombs and fires. The flight attendants trotted to the front of the cabin and reassured everyone that they were safe, th
at there had simply been some malfunction on the ground, likely in the baggage system. They would be proceeding to Rome on schedule.

  Hours into the flight, when the ocean spread out dark and blue below them, information began to trickle in from hushed conversations on air phones: it had been a bomb. Someone had exploded a bomb. A dirty bomb. The news media was reporting that people had been killed, that radioactive material had been strewn all over the airport.

  Eventually, the pilot came on the intercom:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, as many of you have already heard, there was an incident as we were departing Dulles. There was an explosion in the baggage area, and terrorism is suspected. There is no need for you to panic. We’ll get you to Rome, safe and sound. You’ll be met by workers from the U.S. Embassy at the airport, who will be able to put you in touch with your loved ones and provide more information.

  “In the meantime, please try to relax and enjoy the inflight film. Headphones will be offered free of charge. Our flight attendants will be offering a beverage service momentarily …”

  The woman beside Galen started to cry again. The dog paced in its carrier, hearing her owner’s sobs, but unable to console her.

  Galen leaned back, pretending to watch the movie. But some part of him thrilled at the undercurrent of anxiety in the air, the raw smell of fear of these insulated Westerners in the face of chaos.

  It smelled like home.

  “How DID YOU BUILD THE BOMB?”

  The interrogator leaned closer to Zahar than was probably safe. Zahar sat in an interrogation room in a nondescript Homeland Security building, wrapped in a white Tyvek suit and handcuffs. He’d been in custody more than twelve hours, propped up in a chair with no sleep. There were no clocks in the room he was being interrogated in, no daylight to measure the passage of time.

  Geiger counters indicated that he was flush with roentgens. Standing too close to him without suitable protection could probably turn an interrogator sterile. There was a stainless steel table between them, but still. The interrogator didn’t look worried. He was over six feet tall, buzz-cut, and looked like his chest could deflect bullets.