Mother Night pursed her lips and studied Zephyr for a moment. “John said you wanted to purchase some materials from me, Zephyr. He didn’t say that he knew all of this. How does he know?”
“John is an excellent resource.”
“This is spooking the shit out of me, I admit it,” said Mother Night. “There’s no way he could know some of this. Even when I was put on trial there was no mention of the stuff I got from Cyrus Jakoby. None. Not even Mr. Church knows about that.”
“John the Revelator has better sources.”
Mother Night stood up. “Nope. I think we’re done. You’re one spooky bitch, and I—”
Zephyr said, “Wait for just a few moments. Listen to me. Your man Ludo Monk has a thermal scope on his rifle. He can see our heat signatures through this wall. I’m guessing you have some kind of transponder on you so he can differentiate you from me, which means right now his gun is aimed at me. Any bullet he fires from that gun will be able to punch right through these crappy walls. If he’s as good a shot as he’s supposed to be, then he can kill me right now. It’s not even a hundred yards between barrel and target. If you think I’m here to scam you or do you harm in any way, tell him to pull the trigger. Go on. I’ll wait. I’ll sit right here.”
Mother Night looked at the door as if she could see through it and across the parking lot to the other wing of the C-shaped block of motel rooms.
The moment stretched.
Then Mother Night sat back down on the bed.
“Okay,” she said. “What is it you want to buy?”
Zephyr Bain smiled. “I want to buy all of it, sweetie.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
HOME OF JACK LEDGER
NEAR ROBINWOOD, MARYLAND
MONDAY, MAY 1, 5:43 PM
Ghost found it and raced across the field to stand proudly over it, wagging his tail. It was there, nestled down into the flowers. Sean made a grab for it, but I hip-checked him out of the way and snatched it up. I hit the button.
“Go,” I snapped.
“There are still a few details to be handled before we can return your family to you, Captain,” said the Frenchman.
“You don’t want to fuck around too long on this, sparky,” I said.
“These are important details, mon ami.”
“What details?”
“There are fuel cans in the barn. Get them. Place the medical samples and all paper files in the middle of the yard. Keep the flash drives in your pocket, but everything else must be placed on the pile. Douse it all liberally and light a match. When the fire has had sufficient time to burn, you will hear another ring.”
“Wait just a—”
The line went dead.
I stood there, really goddamn needing something to hit. Something with breakable teeth and a voice that could manage a satisfying scream. The Killer in my head was howling. But I kept my voice calm as I explained what had to be done. Sean simply turned and ran toward the barn. I ran after him.
There were two big red metal three-gallon gas cans just inside the barn. We each took one, ran over to the boxes of materials, and shook out the contents, splashing the evidence. Sean was getting sloppy and splashed some on his own clothes. I swatted the can out of his grip and pushed him away.
“Go stand with Rudy,” I said. “Be ready to find the next phone.”
He had to blink several times before any sanity looked out through his eyes. Then he nodded and shambled off. I took a lighter from my pocket, flicked it on, and bent to set the pyre ablaze. It went up fast, and I let the bloom of heat push me back. Gray smoke coiled up into the late-afternoon sky.
And we waited. The bastard let the fire burn for twenty minutes before he called. I spent some of that time kicking at flames that wanted to go running into the field, and some of it using a shovel I fetched from the barn to cut a narrow firebreak. And I used all of that time working on this in my head. Making sure the Cop in me was on the job and the Killer was on a leash. For now, anyway.
When the phone rang I heard Sean cry out, half in surprise, half a whimper of unfiltered fear. He was going to need Rudy’s help, too. Rudy gently took the phone from Sean and held it out for me. Sean allowed it, but this was tearing him apart.
“Okay,” I said, “it’s done. Now, where’s my family?”
“I’m going to need you to bring the flash drives to me. You may not bring a firearm or a knife. Leave whatever you have behind. No cell phone, no electronic devices of any kind.”
“Are you dicking me around?”
“I’m not. This is a business transaction, but there are necessary safeguards built into it. I have great respect for your ability to be creative and exploit opportunities. Therefore you will have to bear with me while I determine that everything is done correctly. If I am safe, then your family will remain safe. That’s only fair, non?”
“Yeah, yeah, let’s get this ball rolling.”
“Très bien,” he said. “You will leave your brother and Dr. Sanchez at the farm. You will leave your dog there as well. Leave your gun and all communications devices behind. That includes your earbud. You will walk east along the main road until you hear a phone ring. You will receive your next set of instructions at that point.” The line went dead before I could say another word.
I explained everything to Sean and Rudy.
“What do you want me to do?” demanded Sean, his eyes wild with the fever of terror.
“Stay here and wait.”
“Jesus Christ, Joe, I can’t!”
“You have to,” said Rudy. “You know that.”
It cost Sean so much to agree, and cost him more to stay behind. I handed my gun and other gear to Rudy, then took off along the road. I didn’t walk, I ran. Not full speed but at a jog trot so I could cover ground. I had that same itch between my shoulder blades that I had before and wondered where the observers were. Who was watching me? How were they watching, and how many of them were out here? I cut looks left and right as I ran. On one side of the road was a farm field that was green with the first shoots of a corn crop pushing up through the soil. On the right were the apple groves belonging to Uncle Jack’s neighbors. There were shadows beneath the trees, and I was sure every one of them was a sniper.
But no bullets punched into me.
I ran and listened. And prayed.
I heard the phone ringing and skidded to a stop, wheeled, and ran fifty yards back to where a burner lay nestled in the tall weeds around a fence post. It was the Frenchman again, and he told me to enter the grove and go northeast toward a stretch of forest. I did, and after a mile another phone had me turn west, then southwest, then to cross to the other side of the road and cut across a field. And on and on. Ten phones, ten sets of directions. The intention was not to disorient me but to allow hidden observers to watch the sky and roads and land around me to see if anyone was following me. No one was.
On the tenth call, the Frenchman told me to climb down a slope to a stream that was in deep shadow under the leafy arms of oaks and maples. I got to the water’s edge and found the next phone and endured ten burning seconds while I waited for it to ring. When it did, I punched the button and the Frenchman said, “Turn around.”
I whirled, shifting immediately into a combat crouch, ready to take on whoever or whatever was coming for me. But that wasn’t it. Instead, there was something waiting for me. It squatted on the hard-packed dirt halfway up the stream bank.
A drone. Not a thresher, though. This was a basic quadcopter, the cheap kind you can buy at any Costco.
The Frenchman said, “Put the drives into the basket.”
I knelt by the drone and saw that there was a wire-mesh basket bolted to the undercarriage. I did as ordered.
“Now,” said the Frenchman, “walk north along the streambed until you hear a phone. It will be the last call, and you will be told how and where to find your family.”
“Remember what I said,” I warned.
“I told you, Captain. This is a bu
siness transaction. Threats and dramatics aren’t necessary.”
The flash drives fit inside with plenty of room to spare. The rotors on the quadcopter began to turn as soon as I stepped back from it, and the tiny motors whined. I watched it rise and wobble away between the trees.
My heart was racing out of control as I moved off along the streambed. Off to my right, I heard a sound. A soft whuff that wasn’t quite a bark. I whirled and crouched, terrified that it was Ghost, that he’d followed me and that it might be construed as me breaking the Frenchman’s rules. The tall grass swayed as a heavy body moved through it toward me.
“Ghost…?” I whispered.
The dog gave another whuff. Softer, weaker, and now I could hear it spiral up into a whine. I bolted into the field, knowing what I’d find there. Finding it. Finding him. Barkley moved very slowly, and I was surprised that he could move at all. The shepherd’s tan-and-black coat was slick with dark blood, and in a flash moment of betrayal I hoped it was his and not the blood of my family.
It was.
Barkley looked up at me with liquid brown eyes filled with so much pain that he was almost on the other side of it. So much hurt that he was nearly beyond feeling hurt. The dog had been chopped and slashed, and his canine mind understood that he was already gone. Even so, with all that damage, he had smelled me, or heard me, and made his presence known.
I hurried to him and knelt as Barkley took a last step and then collapsed against me. He was a big dog, but his weight was diminished by so much loss of blood. He laid his head on my shoe and gave my ankle a small, desperate lick. I tried to comfort him, tried to soothe him, telling him he was a good boy, telling him everything was all right. Lying to that heroic, trusting, loyal animal with every word.
A shudder rippled through him and he sagged down, sighing out his last breath. I bent forward, hissing with the pain that twisted deep inside my chest. The Killer in my soul grieved as ferociously as did the Cop and the Modern Man. Some things touch every open heart and wound every soul. Barkley had been a police dog and then he had been a family dog, and he had died trying to save the family who loved him. He wasn’t even my dog, but I’ve grieved less for some people I know.
I kissed Barkley’s head and stood up, fists balled, stomach churning with hot acid. I started walking again, legs pumping. The lurid dying sunlight slanted sharply through the trees, turning the green world to a hellish red. I felt as if I was approaching the outer rings of hell, heading deeper into the valley of the shadow of death.
And then I heard the sound.
It was a child. A girl.
And she was screaming.
INTERLUDE TWENTY
THE EDUCATION OF ZEPHYR BAIN
THE BAIN ESTATE
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
WHEN ZEPHYR WAS THIRTY-TWO
“They’ll turn me in,” she said. “First damn chance they get, they’ll be on the phone to the authorities.”
“No, they won’t,” said John the Revelator.
“The hell they won’t. You expect me to put fifty top scientists in a room and tell them I want to kill a few billion people, and you think all of them are just going to go, ‘Rah-rah team’?”
“Maybe they will.”
“Maybe I’ll get a lethal injection after a short trial.”
“Maybe you will,” said John.
“Don’t joke,” she snapped. “It’s not funny.”
“My love, am I saying there are no risks? No, of course not. Everything has risks. Breathing deeply is a risk. You could have a blood clot about to break loose inside your veins and the next time you have an orgasm it goes straight to your brain. But that is small thinking. Fear should never be a guiding principle in life.”
“I’m not talking about random fear, John. I’m talking about common sense and caution.”
“Nor am I.”
“Then what—?”
“When have I ever done anything rash?” he asked. “When have I ever asked you to do something needlessly dangerous? Haven’t I taught you caution and subtlety? Weren’t those the lessons you learned from Hugo Vox?”
“Hugo is dead. Doesn’t that say something?”
“He died because he left his protection up to others and became arrogant. You are élitist, my girl, but you’re not arrogant. And you’ve learned your lessons of caution very well. I’m so proud of how you handled things.”
“Don’t hit me with flattery. Tell me how I’m supposed to manage all those scientists without risk. It’s only going to take one phone call to stop everything. One call to the FBI or, worse, to the DMS, and Havoc is done. Over.”
“So make sure none of them want to make that call.”
“Yes, but how?”
“Everyone has a vice, my dear. Understand that vice; control it, and you control them.”
“How?” she snorted. “Making sure they have the best drugs? Getting them laid? Maybe you want me to give them all blow jobs.”
He made a face of disappointment. “Let me frame it a different way. Everyone has something they want, something they need, something they must have. For one man, that might indeed be drugs. For another, the thing they most crave is to not go to jail for past indiscretions. Or it might be that they truly and completely love their children.…”
John stopped there and let the rest hang.
Zephyr felt the blood drain from her face.
But only for a moment.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
IN THE FOREST
ROBINWOOD, MARYLAND
MONDAY, MAY 1, 6:42 PM
I ran like a son of a bitch.
The scream came from farther down the stream, around another bend, and I hit it at a flat run, crashing through brush that leaned out over the water, splashing through puddles and chasing rabbits into a blind panic. I had no weapons, but that wouldn’t matter. Whatever was going after my family was going to die, and I wouldn’t make it nice and quick.
There were shouts, too. My Uncle Jack’s deep voice, other male voices. Ali yelling so high and shrill that the words became nothing more than a whip of panic that cut me across the heart. Branches lashed my face and arms, lacerating my skin, but I didn’t care. The forest was so dense it tried to stop me. No way. No fucking way.
The creek jagged right and the shortest route was up a small hillock and through some shrubs, so I crashed through as a fresh scream tore the air. It was Em’s voice, I was positive. Was it terror or agony? An impossible, hurtful, destructive question for anyone to have to try and answer.
As I closed in, I heard another sound beneath the shrill screams. A low growl, but not an animal sound. This was strange. A machine sound. I burst through and jumped down toward the curve of the stream. The civilized, sane mind has limits to what it can process before circuits blow out and there is a sudden and greater need for darkness than for clarity.
I’m not entirely civilized, and I’m not all that sane. I’ve witnessed horrors. They don’t freeze me in my tracks, even if they’re freezing my heart to a block of ice inside my chest. I’m wired differently. When the Modern Man inside my head is unable to deal with horrors and the Cop has no solutions ready to hand, it’s the Killer who roars to life and takes charge. He’s incapable of hesitation. He’s too primitive to disallow something because it doesn’t square with what he knows of the world. The Killer knows that there are monsters in the dark and even if he cannot name them, even if he fears them, he also knows that survival lies at the other end of a fight. Retreat is what prey does, and he’s a predator. If he’s not the apex predator in any given situation, then whoever or whatever is has got to want the win more than he does, and he always wants it.
He wants it.
I want it.
Even when we were entering hell itself. Like this moment.
Tableau. There they were. All of them. My Uncle Jack, Sean’s wife and kids. Two big men wearing ski masks.
And it. A thresher. It hovered there, plastic blades slashing through the air, engin
e buzzing like a thousand furious wasps.
I took it all in during one microsecond as I came smashing through the brush. Part of the combat mind is orientation. The creek zigzagged at the bottom of a gully that had steep sides. Jack was on the far slope fighting with the two men. I didn’t see any guns, but the fading sunlight flashed on knives and on the bright red of blood. Jack was hurt, but I couldn’t tell how badly, and both of the men had blood on their clothes. Ali stood knee-deep in the brown water, with Lefty and Em behind her. She had a broken length of tree branch in her hands and was swinging wildly at the thresher, which hovered just out of range.
The thresher was as big as an eagle, with a lumpy birdlike body and two sets of whirling propellers that slashed the air as it moved toward Sean’s family. This wasn’t any commercial or recreational drone. This was a killing machine. Ugly and vicious and efficient in its brutality. Ali’s arms were crisscrossed with cuts, some of them deep, and bright blood ran down her limbs. Both kids were splashed with blood, and Lefty was on his knees, his face white, hands clamped over his stomach. Em was trembling, feet wide, fists balled, eyes totally wild.
At the precise moment that I burst from the woods, Ali swung her makeshift weapon at the thing that had come for her children. It rocked sideways, avoiding the swing, and then slashed at her from a tilted angle. Blood flew, and she staggered back. Jack yelled and took a step toward her and there was a flash of silver that tore a cry from him, and I saw a look of perverse triumph in the eyes of one of the two men. I saw all of this, every detail, in one tiny fragment of a second. In times of severe stress, the mind can shut down or it can observe and process a tremendous amount of detail. The difference depends on whether you die or live, on whether you freeze or act.
I hurled myself from the edge of the gully and splashed hard in the water, shoving Ali backward as the drone came in with blades slashing at her face. She fell, but the tip of one blade caught her across the forehead, drawing a vicious red line above her eyebrows. I ducked under the machine and pushed Em back, too. She fell on top of her mother, both of them thrashing in the chop. Lefty was ten feet away and seemed to be staring glassily at something none of us could see. It hurt me so goddamn bad to see that look on his face and, with the Killer running the show, hurt, like fear, turned into a red-hot murderous rage.