Everyone from the police to the dean had been hounding him like a pack of wolves all day, and he was mentally and physically exhausted. After the theft yesterday, he'd spent most of the day filling out paperwork and answering questions for the Campus Police, and thought it had been rough. Today had been that to a factor of ten. The hierarchy of the university was all over him, and Quinton Neilson had started the paper storm that was inevitable from the loss of a specimen of inestimable value. The police had contacted him again with more questions. Video surveillance had given them a couple of images of the two vans and the men, but they had all worn baseball caps which obscured their faces. The license numbers of the vans, Jasper had told him, didn't exist. Neither did the shipping company. Everything had been a complete and very professional fabrication.
And without a single scrap of the sample remaining in his possession, and little chance that any of it would ever be recovered, Hutch had no means to have it analyzed, and no hope of finding a cure for Aleksi's condition.
And as a secondary result, his career was in jeopardy. The faculty council was filing an inquiry. He had lost two students—one dead and one fleeing the police—and a priceless artifact in a span of weeks, and they wanted answers.
He opened his eyes, not realizing that they had sagged closed, and went to the kitchen. He put his bag down and opened the fridge. It was after eleven PM, and he hadn't eaten since lunch, but the thought of food nauseated him. He settled for a container of yogurt and a piece of raisin bread. When the refrigerator door closed, he was blinded by the darkness. He fumbled for the switch over the sink and finally found it, then blinked against the flood of harsh light. He fumbled for a spoon and turned to the living room.
Old Path White Clouds stared at him from the kitchen counter.
Goddamn it, Aleksi, he thought, as the flood of memories buried him.
Hutch leaned against the counter and stared at the book while he ate mechanically. When the bread and yogurt were gone, he dropped the cup in the trash and returned to the book. On impulse, he picked it up and flipped through the pages, but there was no trace of her, no smudge of a fingerprint, no ephemeral scent. He had expunged every trace of her from his life.
"Goddamn it!"
Hutch pulled down a tumbler and a bottle of single malt whisky from the cabinet above the fridge. He poured a measure and swirled it in the glass, watching the legs of alcohol stream down the crystal and inhaling the heady aroma of peat and charcoal. He took a sip, picked up the book, and went to his chair. When he turned on the reading light, however, something caught his eye; a square of yellow hovered as if by magic in the center of the glass door to the dining room balcony.
The glass of whisky clacked forgotten to the table. He fumbled with the lock and flung open the door. The winter air hit him like a chill slap in the face, but he had the note from the window in his hand. It was from her, from Aleksi. His heart hammered in his chest.
"Coffee, Peet's, 6AM. No cops. A."
"How…" He looked around the balcony for a sign of her, any hint of how she had delivered the note, but there was nothing. No trace. He stared out into the night, the note clasped in his hand against the greedy teeth of the wind. "Where are you, Aleksi?" he asked, wondering if she might be watching from somewhere in the darkness.
He looked down at the note and read it again. He would have to be careful. The police were watching him. If they followed him to Peet's, he would never see her again.
I'm right here." Aleksi watched Hutch from behind a tree in the parking lot.
She also watched the police car parked beneath his balcony, listening to the cops' hushed conversation as steam wafted in interesting patterns from their Styrofoam cups of coffee. They were easy to spot, car engine running to keep them warm, sitting in the dark, watching for her but seeing nothing.
She looked back up to Hutch. He was still standing out on his balcony. "Go inside, Hutch." She glanced back to the cop car, but they were watching the building's entrance, not his balcony. She knew he had not heard her, but he went back in and closed the door. She heard the lock click. Good, he was being careful.
She watched the balcony for a while longer, watched him staring into the night, sipping from a glass of amber liquid. Was he thinking of her? Was he remembering their one night together? She was. She found it difficult, even with all the things occupying her mind, to think of anything else.
After a time, she turned and walked away, invisible in the darkness. She knew where she was going, what she needed, and that there would be more cops waiting for her there. She was getting good at evading police, being invisible, and had learned to stay out of sight in the daylight, to avoid security cameras, to wear a baseball cap and dark glasses when she had to traverse areas where unfriendly eyes or cameras might be looking for her. She had even found a place to sleep, though it wasn't exactly homey.
The Boston subway had become her lifeline, her thread of anonymity and means of travel without being noticed. During the busy morning and evening commute, she was just another face among thousands. A little internet research had given her a hint where she could hide. Disused service doors yielded to her, opening into a labyrinth of old tunnels, a maze of unused caves lined in brick and tile, dark and secure, if not clean.
Her apartment house glowed with heat and light, but on the third floor their window was dark. She spotted the cop car on her way to check the other windows to make sure Julie was asleep. She knew the police had been through her place with a fine-toothed comb, but she could not imagine that they would take all of her stuff, the few things she needed. Another cop car was positioned to watch the fire escape, but there were shadows enough to keep her hidden.
Around the other side of the building, an ancient oak tree rose to dizzying heights, its bare limbs extending far enough toward the eaves for her purposes. She removed her gloves and climbed it with little trouble, trying not to knock too much bark and twigs down. The gap from the tree to the roof was only six feet or so. She landed carefully, knowing the attic apartments were full of sleeping students.
Her bedroom window was in the shadow cast by a streetlight and far from the fire escape. She dug her claws into the gaps of brick and descended. The window had never been locked, with nothing but a thirty-foot drop outside. After slitting the screen, it opened easily. She was through like a whisper and left it open in case she had to leave in a hurry. She didn't think the cops would have an officer in the apartment, didn't think Julie would have put up with it, but she wasn't sure.
She put her empty backpack on her bed and quickly picked a few items she needed from her dresser, underwear, another hoodie, jeans, socks, some tee shirts, her heavy mittens, dark colors. She caught her reflection in the mirror and stopped to stare for a moment before moving on, ignoring the chill up her spine. At her jewelry box—the emerald earrings her father had sent her for Christmas—she dumped the contents into her bag's smallest pocket. She hated to think of selling it, but she would need money when they finally closed out her bank accounts.
The thought of money made her cringe, guilt urging her out of her room into the hall. She heard a rustle from the living room and knew Iggy was awake. She went to the kitchen and picked up the pad and pen beside the fridge. She scrawled, "Pay Rent, Feed Iggy, Find New Roommate," in a bulleted list. She pulled a wad of cash from her pocket, clipped it to the note and left it on the counter for Julie to find. She looked around the kitchen, but there was nothing she needed from here.
She risked venturing out into the living room for a look at Iggy. He sat in his cage—His clean cage. Thanks Julie. —staring at her. He didn't rattle it to be let out, didn't lash his tail impatiently, didn't seem to recognize her.
Maybe because I'm not me anymore. She blinked hard and turned away. She couldn't take him with her, of course, and couldn't think about what would happen to him. With everything happing to her, concern for a loved pet was one luxury she couldn't afford, which didn't stop her from feeling like shit. There was
a lot she couldn't afford to take with her, fragments of a life that wasn't hers anymore.
She walked away and vanished into the night.
Persephone girded her nerves and stepped into the Sanctum. Gi-gi was awake, her bed inclined, her ancient eyes flicking over the half-dozen news, information, financial, and entertainment feeds flashing over her flat screens. Speakers mounted near the head of the bed droned out audio tracks to each display, her great-grandmother's amazing mind parsing through the mishmash of sound as easily as her eyes did the video.
Persephone approached and cleared her throat.
An ancient finger twitched on the control and all the screens froze, the audio suddenly silent. "Yes, Persephone?"
"We've had a setback." There had been several, actually, a domino effect of catastrophes seemingly designed to foil her mission.
"Murder…"
Of course Gi-gi knew about Tomlin; the news was all over town. But not the latest developments. "More than that. The specimen has been stolen."
The ancient eyes widened, then narrowed. "Who?"
"I don't know yet."
"Find out." She breathed in sharply, her lips pulled back for a moment. "Why? Something has been discovered. Someone else has learned something that we do not know." She said this like it caused her physical pain. Maybe it did.
"I'll do my best, Gi-gi." Persephone would have to call in some favors for this one. She started to back away.
"And, Persephone…"
"Yes, Gi-gi?"
"Learn what they know and get that specimen. People have killed for it. Be cautious."
"Yes, Gi-gi." Persephone turned and left, the video/audio deluge resuming behind her. Be cautious… She knew it wasn't concern for her safety, but concern about discovery that prompted the command. There was no sentiment left in the mind of her great-grandmother.
The changes are accelerating." Johansen watched the multiple screens as Derrick Penningly played a videogame. "His reflexes are improving."
"He keeps beating his own high score." The technician pulled up the data and pointed at the numbers, response times, keystrokes per second, and even strategy analysis.
"In only three days. That is impressive." He wished the research was progressing as quickly. The samples were an enigma, a confused mish-mash of fragmented proteins, DNA, and RNA that they had only begun to pick apart. The samples taken from Penningly were even worse. The DNA sequences didn't make sense, as if his genome was being rewritten. They had no idea how to stop or reverse the process, even if they wanted to, which Johansen certainly didn't.
"Has he requested anything else?"
"Besides raw meat and alcohol, you mean?"
"Yes, besides that."
"Yes." The technician turned to look at his boss. "He says he's bored. He wants to look at our research."
"Well that's not going to happen." Johansen watched Penningly play his video game, clawed hands a blur on the controls. "No, I don't think we can let him out of his cage just yet."
If only he could find Aleksi Rychenkna. Johansen needed to step up the search for her before some fumble-handed cop got his hands on her. There had to be a way to bring her in, something she needed, some vulnerability he could exploit, but so far, he'd only come up with three; her roommate, her faculty advisor, and her parents, none of whom she seemed to be very close to.
No, Miss Rychenkna, we may just have to cut our losses on this one. He turned away from the screen and started back to the lab. A bird in the hand, after all…
Jasper rubbed his eyes and stared at the white board in the squad room, at all the pictures, diagrams, and notes that made up the case. His eyes found the photographs of the vans, the images of the four men who had stolen the samples. How it connected to the murder of Bob Tomlin was still a mystery, evidenced by the big red question mark in the middle of the dotted line that connected the thefts to the murder evidence.
"Professional." He frowned and reached for his coffee cup. The coffee was cold and bitter, but so was he, and it kept him alert.
"What did you say?" Willis looked up from the manpower requisition forms he was filling out.
Overtime for surveillance was costing the department a bundle. They had a few ATM transactions from Rychenkna, but they were all over the city. The subway footage was overflowing with images of slim people in coats, hoodies, and hats—Winter in Boston; what did you expect?—but none had been confirmed to be either of their fugitives.
"I said, professional." He pointed to the pictures of the van and the men in nondescript uniforms. "Those guys knew every trick. They stink of old school larceny; mob, maybe. Some group that specializes in lifting high-end merchandise."
"But Penningly's family doesn't have connections like that," Willis reminded him. "Plenty of money, but no links to organized crime, and no big expenditures lately that could finance a job like this. The old man's pissed off that his son can't be found, and called every police captain and mayor in the greater Boston area to call them incompetent. They've been estranged for the last two years or so. The kid didn't even go home for Christmas."
"Neither did Rychenkna." Jasper scratched his stubbled jaw. "Who else could arrange this kind of job, and why, other than to protect Derrick Penningly?" He squinted at the photos again. "I mean look at these guys. They look like freaking clones! Perfect posture, cut, walk like guys who know how to move…like goddamn government spooks."
"Oh, speaking of government…" Willis rooted through the pile of paper on his desk and found a sheet. "This came while we were out. Seems the FBI has an interest in the thefts, since the pieces that were stolen were from Russia."
"They're pulling the investigation away from us?" Jasper blinked at him like he'd told him his hair was on fire. "Not the murder investigation!"
"No, but they've insisted that we share all our findings with them, including the computer data Hutchinson gave us."
"They're welcome to it, as long as they don't shut us out. We've still got a murder to solve, and at this point, I'll take any help they can give me."
"Hey you two!" They both turned to see Willis' husband Charles coming in. He had a big paper bag in one hand and a drink carrier in the other. "Dinner for three, served with a smile."
Charles struck a pose, smiling like a hundred-watt bulb, and Jasper had to laugh. He was dressed, as always, to the nines; a cream silk jacket, pastel shirt and a tie that probably cost more than Jasper spent on a month's rent. Working vice had its advantages. He often posed as an upscale pimp, and the clothes were part of his job. Charles played it to the hilt.
"Now I know why I married you." Willis rose from his chair to help with the bag and give his husband a kiss of greeting. "You're a godsend."
"And all this time I thought you married me for the sex!" Charles handed over the food and distributed the drinks. "I got those yummy roast beef subs from that place down the square. Dig in!"
"Thanks, Charles." Jasper accepted a wrapped sandwich and a towering cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee. "You just earned your Christmas Card."
"And it's not even the end of February! Lucky me!" Charles waved a hand at the white board. "Mind if I cover up the gruesome display while we eat. Looking at some poor boy's torn out throat while I'm eating roast beef gives me heartburn."
"Feel free." Jasper bit into his sandwich and chewed in gastronomic bliss. "Wicked sandwich. Thanks, Charles."
"Part of the service." Charles stopped at the white board, not staring at the flayed flesh of Bob Tomlin's throat, but the photos of the shipping crew thieves. "Who are the Fed Four?"
Jasper stopped in mid swallow, nearly choking at the question. He grabbed his coffee and took a pull, swallowing forcefully. "Why call them that?"
"Oh, pu-lease! Just look at those shoes!" He waved a hand at the photo. "Four pair of identical low-profile combat boots, all the same style, color and make? Nobody wears shit like that unless someone makes them, sweetie."
Jasper was out of his chair, the food forgotten. He squin
ted at the photo, then looked over his shoulder at Willis. "Why didn't we see that before?"
"Because we're not connoisseurs of fine men's footwear." Willis grinned and took another bite of his sandwich. "And my husband's a genius."
"Well, I'll take that as a thank you." Charles reached up and pulled down the screen that covered the board. "Now back to dinner, Sergeant. It's after midnight, and you can't capitalize on my genius until the morning anyway."
"I…" Jasper let Charles pull him away from the obscured board while his mind raced. "Right…midnight…morning."
"You okay, sweetie?" Charles helped Jasper into his chair. "You look a little pale"
"Just thinking." He reached for his sandwich and took another bite, chewing as he let the possibilities sift through his mind. They might be government spooks, or maybe some kind of hired mercenaries, but why steal the specimen? And who could swing the kind of weight it would take to organize and execute something like this?
Jasper knew one thing for sure; with the FBI grabbing the jurisdiction of the theft, and evidence pointing to government involvement, he would get absolutely nowhere if he started prying for answers.
"But murder…" he mumbled, reaching for his coffee, "…is something else entirely."
33
Hutch skipped the gym, drove straight to the Oxford Parking garage—police tail intact—and pulled into an empty faculty spot. The cops, he noticed, parked on the street, no doubt watching the doors. He went to his office, turned on the light, and plugged in his computer.
He left at quarter of six, with the light on and his computer running a virus scan. Fortunately, Hutch could get from his office to the south end of the MCZ building without setting foot outside. From there, he skirted the quad behind the chem labs, crossed Kirkland, and edged along the walk beside Memorial Hall. The dorm quads were silent this early, and he looked back to make sure nobody had followed him. Across Mass. Ave., he passed the transit station and hurried down JFK. He looked back again at Auburn, but there was no sign that he'd picked up a police shadow. It was still dark, but Peet's was lit up and they were just opening the doors. He slipped through, fifth in line, and ordered two coffees and a large apple Danish. When he turned around and scanned the café, he spotted Aleksi's jacket in the corner, the only table blocked from street view. She wore a hoodie and a cap, and he couldn't see her face, but it was her, no doubt.
Dragon Dreams Page 29