Forever, page 20
He allowed himself a brief moment for a mental snapshot: She was beautiful in motion, her arms and legs pumping, her mouth open as she yelled in anger, her body a powerful, athletic coordination kicked into gear by a keen, assertive mind.
Alas, he would have to depart.
And dematerialize he did.
But not before, in the darkness… he blew her a kiss.
* * *
When Lydia reached the guard, she stopped so short that she tripped over her feet and landed on her hands and knees—which gave her an up-close-and-personal that was horrifying: The man was facedown and limp in the scratchy grass, his head turned away at a bad angle.
Very bad.
“Help!” she called out again.
Where was security when you needed them?
“Sir,” she said as she gently patted his shoulder, “it’s okay. You’re going to be okay?”
As if that was a question she expected him to answer or something.
Crab-walking around him, she—“Oh… God.”
Lydia let herself fall back onto her seat. The man’s eyes were open and unfocused, staring straight out of the sockets, as if he were transfixed by a view. Likewise, his lips were parted, but he wasn’t breathing—
Suddenly, two guard dogs flashed by her, silent canine missiles, and then a pair of guards arrived, their heavy footfalls seeming to crash into her. Without preamble, she was picked up by two heavy hands and moved over as if she were as inanimate as the dead man.
“I saw something out here,” she babbled to no one in particular. “It was him, moving fast. The blond hair caught my eye. All of a sudden, he seemed to capture something—but then there was some kind of tussle and I heard this crack and I came running and—”
“Get her inside—”
“I’ll take her in—give me a sec.”
At the familiar voice, Lydia looked up. Gus had run out of the house, and as he dropped down and took hold of the guard’s wrist, he seemed tense and professional.
Glancing up, he shook his head; then he focused on her. “Come on, Lydia. Come with me.”
Things became a blur at that point. Then again, every time she blinked, she saw the guard’s face, so handsome, so static. When her awareness properly checked in again, she was sitting at the breakfast table, in the alcove off C.P.’s industrial kitchen, the light fixture that hung from the ceiling glowing softly. The scent of coffee drifted over to her, and so did a volley of conversation that was hushed and urgent.
Clearing her throat, she said, “Where is Daniel—”
“I’m right here.” There was the scrape of a chair, and then he was by her side, his hand on her back. “Are you okay?”
She didn’t know what she said to him. She hoped it was reassuring.
Gus was the one who brought the coffee. Two mugs—one for her, one for Daniel. Then the doctor disappeared and came back with a Coke for himself.
“What happened out there?” he asked.
Lydia shook her head and glanced across at the man. “I don’t know. You were with Daniel in the bedroom, and I figured I’d give you both a little privacy. I went out to move the car around to the garage… and I saw something out on the lawn…”
She had a feeling this was a story she was going to have to repeat to many people. Just like Daniel did with his list of symptoms.
Abruptly, she closed her mouth and looked through into the kitchen. A pair of men were standing off to the side, their guns drawn, their mouths pressed to communicators mounted on their shoulders.
“You—you know,” she stammered, “I sometimes thought that all this security of hers is overdone—”
“It’s not.”
Lydia glanced over her shoulder. C.P. had come into the alcove from the other side, and it was weird. She was only half dressed, a loose fleece on top—wait, wasn’t that something Gus wore around the lab sometimes? And why was she barefoot?
“Are you going to let Sheriff Eastwind know?” Lydia blurted at the woman who was in charge.
Not that she particularly cared about the answer—it was more something she felt like she should ask, just to show she was comprehending the common reality. One thing that was nice about being on the fringes of humanity because of her mixed blood? She didn’t feel the need to worry about the particulars—and something told her that C.P. might very well handle this in her own way.
“We’ll take care of everything,” the woman replied in a level tone.
Bingo—
All at once, C.P. came into sharp view, as if Lydia’s attention were a camera lens that was finally being operated properly after a period of incompetence. The other woman seemed pale and frazzled, but then again, there was a dead guy on her lawn. Except… there was something else that was off about her, something that was so much more than her wearing a total mismatch for her fine, formal slacks.
Flaring her nostrils, Lydia breathed in deep. Then she repeated the inhale.
C.P. frowned. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
I’m fine, Lydia thought to herself. But you’re… pregnant.
TWENTY-FOUR
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Daniel was staring at the ceiling over their bed as the sun rose.
He figured he wasn’t the only one in the household who hadn’t slept well. Even after he and Lydia had gone to their bedroom and lay down, it was a long time before there was any shut-eye going on. He was very sure she was shocked that she’d seen a dead body, but maybe, like him, she was also worried about the what-ifs: What if the killer had been out there with her? What if she had been taken down, too?
Assuming that guard didn’t trip in a groundhog hole and fall in such a way so as to snap his own frickin’ neck, someone must have done the job for him—which meant somebody with serious skills had managed to slip past C.P. Phalen’s security.
And there was only one group of individuals he could think of with that kind of know-how—
As a sharpshooter went through his frontal lobe, he hissed and rubbed over his eyebrows—then again, his brain felt like a muscle that had been unused until very recently. Fortunately, the pain faded quickly, especially as he replayed, for the hundredth time, the fact pattern of Lydia walking out of the house, and seeing something on the lawn, and going over to find a man whose neck had been snapped.
He looked over at Lydia. She had tossed and turned beside him throughout the night hours, settling only when he’d wrapped his arms around her and held her close. And wasn’t that another moment when he’d felt like a man instead of a cancer patient.
Not that the two couldn’t exist at the same time, as he was beginning to learn.
As if she sensed his regard, her lids opened. “Are you okay?” she asked in a gravelly voice.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” He brushed her cheek. “I’m just going to go down to the lab for another round of fluids and perk-me-up. If you can, stay here and get some rest, even if you’re not sleeping?”
The murmur that came back at him was encouraging. It was the sound of drowsiness, and sure enough, her even breathing pattern resumed.
Being careful not to disturb her, he sat up, then stood up. She was so vulnerable, all tucked into herself, her legs drawn up, her arms, too, her hands cupped beneath her chin. They’d fallen asleep once again in their clothes on top of the duvet, and he reached down and pulled the extra comforter all the way over her so she would be warm.
“Love you,” he whispered in her ear.
“Love you,” she mumbled as she puckered for his kiss.
After he obliged, she sighed—and he put his feet into his running shoes and headed for the exit. Outside of their room, he took a quick listen. When he heard no voices echoing through the polished stone halls, he went down to the kitchen. He was surprised no one was at the counters or the stoves, not even the chef, who, ordinarily, would be slinging gourmet hash for a dozen or more breakfast plates.
Had C.P. ordered an evac of nonessentials? he wondered.
The guards were all at their usual posts in the house, and they did look on duty—but when did they not?
Heading out to the front, he passed through the foyer—where you could have played two or three games of professional volleyball simultaneously—and approached a closed set of double doors. Back when he’d been in better shape, during the early days of his diagnosis, he’d memorized the layout of the mansion, the intel garnered thanks to all those nights when he hadn’t been able to sleep.
So, yeah, he knew where C.P. Phalen’s war room was.
Arriving at the closed door, he knocked, and then looked up to the discreetly mounted fish-eyed camera that was at the ceiling. Giving a little wave, he waited.
If she wasn’t inside, she’d probably be down in the security center that was one floor below—
Things opened, and what do you know, not only was the woman herself the one doing the duty with the knob, she was also still in that fucked-up outfit of navy blue fleece and formal slacks. Still no shoes, either.
“Daniel,” she said with exhaustion. “If you’re looking for Gus, he’s in the lab—”
“No, I’m here for you.”
“I appreciate your concern—”
“You know what I am.” As the woman went silent and narrowed her tired eyes, he nodded. “There’s no way you let me stay in this house without doing a background check, and when you found my created identity, you probably tried to probe further. When that came out with nothing, you drew the right conclusions—and kudos for never asking me what I wouldn’t tell you, by the way.”
She glanced over his shoulder. Then she stepped back without a word and indicated the way in.
He’d never been inside her sanctum sanctorum before, and he was not surprised that the stark, glossy decor of the rest of the house was front and center. Had the woman never heard of knickknacks? A pop of color?
She really needed to watch some Scott Living by Drew & Jonathan.
Did she even know what QVC was?
C.P. went across and sat behind her slab of a desk. As she leaned back in her black leather chair, her eyes were steady and he admired her composure given all the shit that was going on: him flaking out on trying that compound of hers, dead body on her front lawn, possible law enforcement issues—although if she could hide from the FDA as effectively as she did, disappearing a corpse was probably not a problem that was new to her.
“I’m not unaware of the nature of your work,” she said remotely. “Or that my lab was likely your target. You were on my acreage with a bomb and detonator. I am not confused as to your intent.”
“And yet you let me stay on.” He went over and sat down in the chair opposite her. “But by then, you knew what was wrong with me—did you hope I was a candidate for your trial right away?”
“No offense, I’m not really in a chitchat mood right now.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you aren’t. Then again, neither am I.” He sat forward. “I know who killed your guard—and no, it wasn’t me. You can check your security feeds. Gus and I were in your guest bedroom.”
“I know where you were.”
“I think my old boss is back in action and still wants to take you down.” A return of that sudden tightening across his frontal lobe made him rub over his eyebrows again. “Back in the spring, my commander attempted to leverage my relationship with Lydia after I tried to pull out of my mission—and I had hoped, when things stayed quiet through the spring and summer, that he’d moved on to another target. But your dead guard last night? I think you’re in play once more.”
“So who did you work for?”
“The Federal Bureau of Genetics.”
C.P. shook her head. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“That’s the point.” As his headache seemed to be sticking around, Daniel shifted his position to relieve the pressure on his spine. Not that it helped. “No one has. We were tasked with protecting the integrity of the human genome against unlawful manipulation—by clandestine labs just like yours. I was part of an expert team of mercenary soldiers who, shall we say, were deployed to dismantle such operations.”
“And to think I assumed I only had to watch out for my competitors,” she said dryly. “I’m impressed the government managed to keep you such a secret. So who is your boss, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“He goes by the name of—” A real spear of agony rocketed through Daniel’s skull, but he refused to be derailed. “Blade. It’s code for fuck only knows what. He had resources that were very deep, and he coordinated our squads of two to three soldiers, doling out the assignments and priorities. He’s efficient, highly rational, very deadly. I can only assume from the way he operated with such autonomy, and stayed so far outside the reach of conventional law enforcement, that his orders come from the highest levels.”
“Well.” C.P. laughed a little. “If I can do it, why can’t the president of the United States? Function under the radar, that is.”
“Listen, I’ve been really grateful for you.” He shrugged and was relieved as his headache began to ease up. “For taking Lydia and me in. Even if your intention was for me to be your first test subject, when I changed my mind and stuck to it, you haven’t kicked us out.”
“Don’t make a hero out of me, Daniel.”
“I’m not, don’t worry. But I’m surprised that you let me stay at all. Given what you know about me. What if I were a fox in your henhouse?”
“You aren’t. I monitor everything that happens around here. I know what everyone is doing—all their conversations, their calls, their movements. I have quite a comprehensive system—although there are certain provisions that are made for… privacy purposes.”
With a smile, he thought about what he’d done with Lydia the night before in their bed—when they hadn’t been able to sleep. “I appreciate the discretion.”
Her mouth lifted briefly at the corners. “You’re welcome.”
“Anyway, I’m a quid pro quo kind of guy. So in return for what you’ve done for me and my woman, I’d like to offer you a little help.”
A finely tended-to eyebrow lifted. “How so.”
“I have some ins with the organization I worked for. I’m prepared to exploit them to find out what’s going on with respect to your lab—and before you ask, you can have one of your security guys sitting at my shoulder when I do it. At least if you know what you’re dealing with, you can drive your strategy of retaliation better.”
There was a long pause. “Will your former boss be shocked at your disloyalty, I wonder.”
“I’m not being disloyal. I don’t work for people who threaten my woman’s life.”
“Fair enough.” C.P. inclined her head. “But I’m not sure I require anything. I am curious why this is all coming up now.”
“Apart from the dead guard, you mean?” As C.P. tightened her lips, like she was going well-duh in her head, he continued, “I want Lydia to be able to pick when she leaves this house. If you feel like you owe me something, that gives her some time. Even if I’m dead.”
“You don’t have to worry about her. She’s welcome here for however long she wishes to stay. I am… aware of her differences.” C.P. cleared her throat. “Security cameras have shown me… incredible things. She is a miracle.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more.”
And he respected that C.P. hadn’t tried to exploit any of that—or brought it up with Lydia as far as he knew. Stress was stress, after all, and he wasn’t sure how much of that dual nature she wanted out in conversation.
“You know what,” C.P. said, “I think I will take you up on your offer.”
“Good.” He laughed a little. “I figured I’d have to argue with you—or wait until a couple of others died on your property before you came to your senses.”
“I’m far more logical than you give me credit for. And at any rate, you are an unusual situation.”
He waited for the expound on her reasons for taking someone she hadn’t hired, and perhaps shouldn’t trust, into her confidence. But when she didn’t go any further, he approved of her closed-lip routine. He would have been the same in her situation: She had a big operation to protect and the resources to do just that—but an unknown threat was on her horizon. If she could somehow extract intel from him? She bettered her position without a lot of exposure, given he had already been on the inside of her lab and had done nothing to violate her privacy.
“What do you need from me?” she asked.
“A computer with internet access. That’s it.” He held up a forefinger. “And I don’t want to stress Lydia out about this. I worry her too much already—and besides, it’s not like I’m going to go out into the field or anything.”
At least… he didn’t think he was headed in that direction.
Nah, he thought as he got to his feet. That wasn’t what was going to happen.
After C.P. told him she’d deliver a laptop to his room, he turned and started crossing the distance to the door. Halfway there, he paused and looked down at himself.
Well. What do you know.
He’d forgotten his cane, and didn’t even miss it.
TWENTY-FIVE
DOWN AT THE lab, Gus was pacing around his office, dribbling his basketball. In the entire facility, his work crib was one of the few that had four walls and a door; everything else was those open-air workstations. Of course, in typical C.P. Phalen style, he was monitored like everything else on the premises, but he certainly had more privacy than most.
And good goddamn thing, too.
He was supposed to be getting things ready for the first transfusion at midnight. Instead, he was fucking around, playing ghost jump shot with the door, working offense against absolutely nothing coming at him: He’d lied to good ol’ Cathy. There were no more tests to run. The shit that had been done at MD Anderson recently had been more than sufficient for relevant baselines and an assessment of her general health, and he’d done his own snapshot last night.
