Beyond Wilder

by Leigh Tudor

  Trevor’s head leaned back into his hands as if about to lose it.

  “I . . . have someone on the inside.”

  Alec’s head reared back and to the side. “You know someone on the inside?” He shook his head, contemplating this new advantage. “Can they help us get in?”

  Forrest lifted his head, clasped his hands to his mouth, and shook his head. “It’s my daughter.”

  Alec froze.

  Forrest had a daughter?

  Jesus H. Christ, how many revelations in two days could one man handle?

  “I thought we had this discussion already,” Alec said as evenly as possible, barely holding his temper. “I thought you understood that if we were to be partners, you were to be one-hundred-percent transparent with me. But instead, every time I turn around, you’re throwing around a breaking news alert. What the fuck, Forrest? You gonna tell me there’s a Jupiter-sized meteor about to crash into the earth? That The Planet of the Apes is really a docuseries?”

  He turned his head toward Alec. “Her name is Haley. She’s five years old. They took her when she was three.”

  Alec swallowed hard.

  Of course, it had to be about a kid. His indignation deflated.

  “Who took her?”

  “Halstead.”

  “Why . . . how?”

  More silence.

  Alec gave him the time to gather himself.

  “I was on my first SEAL mission when my wife, Theresa, gave birth to Haley.” He stretched his neck side to side as if finding it difficult to go on. “There were . . .” He returned to staring at his clasped hands. “Complications. I returned from the mission to find that I missed my wife’s funeral, and Haley was staying with my parents.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know what I was thinking at the time, other than I was devastated and lost. Theresa and I met in high school, and she was . . . everything . . .”

  He stopped, the anguish apparent on his face.

  “When I came home on bereavement leave, I still had three and half more years of service to go. And I don’t need to tell you that the Navy SEALs were no fucking joke. We were an elite group doing and seeing some pretty nasty shit. I wasn’t in a good place. Had trouble coping with the loss of my wife and started drinking. Heavily. So, I signed custody of Haley over to my parents and went back to work. Theresa didn’t have any family worth mentioning, and it seemed the right and responsible thing to do at the time.

  “My parents noticed early on that she didn’t pay much attention to sounds and wondered if Haley might be deaf. Apparently, she underwent head trauma during birth. The doctors tested her hearing and found she was normal, so they looked into her being autistic as she was showing the high function for skills associated with the right hemisphere of the brain but lacking with the left.”

  He stood, picked up his pants, and began to dress. “Somewhere along the line, Halstead got involved. He convinced my parents that Haley needed special care immediately and talked them into providing him temporary custody. What they didn’t know was that there was a provision in the documents stating that if they both were to die; full custody would go to Halstead.”

  With far less vigor than Alec, Trevor pulled his shirt over his head. “My parents died from carbon monoxide inhalation sitting in their car in the garage with the engine running the day after Dr. Halstead took Haley to the research facility.”

  Alec slowly nodded his head.

  Recognizing his partner wasn’t one for emotional platitudes, he stood, cleared his throat, and simply said, “Looks like we need to buy a vehicle, come up with a plan B, and get our girls out.”

  Mercy pulled to the side of the road and stared at the familiar stone sign that indicated she had arrived at the Halstead Research Center.

  There was a time when she thought the odds of ever escaping this hellhole stacked against her. And despite the liberating freedom that came from working assignments in a number of unique locales around the world, she had always been keenly aware that her freedom was, and always would be, short-lived.

  Within hours of completing each job, she was always delivered back to where the orderlies and attendants ignored her. The doctors spat out false diagnoses, and her trainers and educators punished and berated her when she failed to exceed expectations.

  Yet here she was, ready and willing to go back inside.

  Not to mention, torn between grabbing her sister and hugging her or sweeping her legs out from under her and shoving a size-seven boot to her neck.

  To her surprise, getting past the security guard and into the compound was easier than expected, considering what they went through less than a year ago while making their way out.

  Once she got past security at the gate, a guard she didn’t recognize sat behind the reception desk oblivious to who she was and the irony of her standing there.

  The whole thing seemed odd and unsettling as she kept waiting for someone to recognize her and scream like a chick in a horror movie desperately searching for a panic button to press.

  Instead, the guard behind the glass window calmly handed her a clipboard with a sign-in sheet attached.

  She signed in as Mercy Ingalls and asked to speak with Dr. Bancroft.

  Several minutes and three chewed-up fingernails later, the large metal door swung open, and she was shocked to see Jasper approaching her without a tank-sized orderly or wearing a full set of body armor.

  “Good morning, Mara,” he said, extending his hand. “What a pleasure it is to see you.”

  She stared at his hand and then up at his thin, placid face.

  Her own eyes narrowed, and her blood began to boil, moving through her veins and settling in her throat as she stared into the jaundiced eyes responsible for killing Vlad.

  “The name is Mercy. What is going on?” she asked. “Where’s Loren?”

  “Are you here to visit?” he asked as if welcoming her to an afternoon of high tea. “Let me take you to Ava’s office and let her know you’re here. She’ll be excited to see you.”

  He turned to the guard, who had her guest badge ready. She slowly placed the lanyard over her head and then, as if navigating an alternate universe, followed Jasper through unfamiliar halls to sections of the facility she had never seen before.

  She remained on high alert, waiting for a team of orderlies to burst through a door in a surprise attack or a trap to crash down on both sides of her, caging her in.

  Instead, Jasper led her through a set of halls and into a large office area where a few people worked in a maze of cubicles, affording her little attention. But based on experience, even a smidgeon of notice was astronomical.

  She passed one cubicle where a woman wearing a long sweater with cats on the front and particularly unattractive floral leggings actually smiled at her. And then frowned as Mercy stared back in disbelief.

  Did they not know she was psychotic and unpredictable? That their lives were in peril?

  She stopped short as Jasper began rapping a knuckle on an open door. She looked over his shoulder and into an expansive office and nearly lost all her faculties at the sight of Loren sitting demurely behind a long glass desk.

  “Ava, there’s someone here to see you,” Jasper said, standing to the side and allowing Mercy to be in full viewing mode.

  She had to give her sister credit. She appeared only slightly surprised and just as quickly pasted one of her fake smiles on her face as she stood behind the desk.

  “Mara, please come in.” She glanced at Jasper as well with a tilt of her head, indicating he should step inside. “Please close the door behind you.” She raised one hand toward the beige linen chairs that faced her desk. “Have a seat.”

  Mercy responded through gritted teeth, ignoring the chair. “The name is Mercy, and in case you forgot, Mara died almost a year ago.” She turned to Jasper. “Could you give us a minute?”

  He turned to Loren, who nodded, and made his way to leave but then turned back. “This could be a good
thing,” he said to Loren. “All of us back together. Think about it. She could help us with Amado.”

  Loren didn’t respond but gave him a stern look until he turned around and shut the door behind him.

  “What in the actual fuck is going on?” Mercy asked, walking toward her sister dressed in a cashmere sweater and cream linen pants that matched the fucking chairs.

  “You need to leave,” Loren responded evenly.

  Her harsh words seized Mercy’s breath. “What do you mean I need to leave? Are you high? Or having one of your out-of-body astral moments? Talk. To. Me.”

  “There’s nothing to say. Jasper and I now run the Center together. He agreed he had more to gain by being my partner than my prison guard. End of story.”

  “So what are you telling me? That you and shit-for-brains are partners in crime now?”

  “Correct.”

  “That’s how you’re going to play this?”

  “This isn’t a game, Mercy. It’s my new reality. One that I chose.”

  “I don’t buy it. You’re not telling me the truth. You would never work with Jasper unless . . . unless it was a ruse.”

  “The reasons don’t matter.”

  “The fuck they don’t.”

  “When did you start cursing again?”

  “When my fucking sister supposedly partnered up with the man who made our lives a fucking living hell.”

  “Madame Garmond says cursing shows a lack of communication skills.”

  “The only person in this room not communicating is my sister.” She took in Loren’s outfit. “My sister who’s dressed in a suit standing behind a ridiculous glass desk.” She crossed her arms, scowling. “How much more impractical could this be? I could destroy this thing with a single well-placed knuckle punch.”

  “Please don’t. It just arrived this morning, and it was expensive.”

  Needing to buy time, Mercy stepped toward a bookcase perusing the spines. “Let me guess. You have an administrative assistant.”

  “Her name is Louise.”

  “She get you coffee in the morning?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. With cream and sugar.”

  Mercy glanced back at her starched sister. “She keep track of the straitjacket inventory? Provide a weekly report with Venn Diagrams on who’s fucking who in the crazy ward?”

  “This conversation is unproductive and pointless,” Loren said. “I’m going to ask you to leave. Please don’t bother coming back.”

  Mercy recoiled, a lump inching its way up her throat.

  In her heart, she knew her sister was hiding something. But the harsh words were too much coming from the one person in her life who’d taught her everything she knew about what was good and worthwhile and meaningful.

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do,” she said. “You’re a distraction I can’t afford. Either you leave without a fuss, or I make a quick call and have you escorted out. Which is it?”

  “Do you honestly believe they could make me leave?”

  “If necessary, I’ll do it myself.”

  Mercy glared and mustered up her best brave face, despite feeling gutted.

  Her tone softened. “Vlad is dead.”

  Finally, a trace of emotion crossed Loren’s face, proving a human lived inside the cold carcass dressed in sheep’s cashmere clothing. “Wh . . . How?”

  “Your partner, the one who escorted me to your fancy-ass office, called the hit.” Mercy’s eyes turned glassy. She was suddenly so tired. “A clean shot to the temple.” She hesitated. “While sitting at our kitchen table.”

  Mercy chose to withhold details of Vlad’s betrayal.

  Loren’s stoic demeanor wavered as she leaned her fingers onto the surface of her desk.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she finally managed as she cleared her throat and began sifting through papers on her desk. “But it changes nothing. You need to leave. Forget this place ever existed and move on.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Mercy said, pulling out her last card.

  She plunked herself in one of the delicate chairs, stretching her legs out in front of her with her hands clasped in her lap. “The final words from Vlad before he was murdered were that my migraines stem from the surgically induced lesions created by Dr. Vielle.” She waited a moment before delivering the final blow. “If left uncorrected, I’ll die.”

  Loren blinked.

  Trying to make sense of what she had just heard.

  She fell into her chair and stared back at Mercy.

  “I . . . don’t understand.”

  Mercy shrugged her shoulders. “You know what I know. Vlad took a full metal jacket to the brain before I could squeeze him for more details.”

  Despite Mercy’s swagger, tears were now making a clear path down her cheeks.

  Loren’s heart ached as her hands came to her chest and then rubbed at her temples.

  Vlad was gone.

  Mercy’s migraines were fatal.

  And she was in the midst of trying to placate a disgruntled Mexican drug lord and founder of one of the most dangerous cartels in the Western Hemisphere.

  After making that fateful call and agreeing to help Jasper out of his current situation, she had no idea who he had managed to piss off. And frankly, she was surprised he was still breathing.

  Literally, a dead man walking.

  She thought maybe he made an inaccurate wire transfer or missed a deadline on an intel sweep, never dreaming that he failed epically at assisting the covert move of fifteen “misappropriated” combat vehicles traveling from Culiacan to Sinaloa, Mexico.

  But none of that mattered now.

  Her sister was going to die.

  But then again, Mercy could be lying. She could have concocted the story to convince Loren to fill her in on her covert plans.

  Yes. That was exactly what Mercy was doing.

  “Are you implying the lesions were caused by Dr. Vielle during one of your surgeries?”

  Mercy shrugged. “As I told you, you know as much as I do.”

  Loren nodded. “I think we can quickly determine the voracity of what we know.” Lifting her cell phone, she placed a call. “Good morning, Dr. Vielle, this is Ava Halstead. I understand you have spoken with Dr. Bancroft and are aware of the recent organizational changes? Good. Could you come to my office for a moment? Thank you. Oh, I’m in Dr. Bancroft’s old office. Yes, and bring the medical files you have on Mara Halstead if you please.”

  Mercy’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you talking like a personality-devoid auto-bot?”

  Loren refused to allow her sister to rile her. “I’m responsible for the livelihoods of the people who work here and their research. I’m no longer Loren Ingalls living in a backward prairie town, teaching self-defense classes and working part-time jobs.”

  “So, now you go by Ava Halstead. Ex-psycho and potential serial killer?”

  “The staff know me as the once estranged stepsister of Dr. Bancroft who has reconnected with her brother. Jasper dismissed the die-hard Dr. Halstead sycophants. With the exception of Dr. Vielle, no one here knows my history with the Center.”

  “So basically Jasper hired people who didn’t know what a feckless dickwad he was?”

  “He brought in his own staff, those he knew would be loyal and follow his instructions.” And didn’t know he was a dickwad. Loren took a breath. “Not unlike many directors taking over the running of an organization.”

  “Did he forget to hire security? This place is easier to get into than a homecoming queen.”

  Another reason Loren was shocked Jasper was still walking upright. Due to dwindling revenues, he had been forced to let go the majority of his security staff, except for a small skeleton crew.

  She needed to fix that and stat.

  “We gave the team extra time off for the holidays.” Loren glanced at her monitor to see if an email came through from a certain highly discreet security firm.

  “You know, I don�
�t remember you ever lying to me. Until now.”

  Loren fidgeted in her chair, avoiding eye contact with the very person she was trying to protect. But Mercy was right. She had always been honest with her and their current situation. Maybe with a few omissions, but never outright lies.

  Mercy leaned forward, losing the snarky tone. “So, whatever is going on here, I need you to come clean. Because if you don’t, our relationship will never be the same. Do you get that? Do you understand what you’re doing is causing irreparable harm?”

  Before Loren could respond, Dr. Vielle knocked on her door. The two sisters continued their glare off until Loren finally looked away and instructed him to enter.

  He was a short elderly man of French descent with a large bulbous nose. His longstanding medical career was of vast evil proportions reminiscent of the experimental horrors of the Holocaust era.

  Loren knew this all too well. All part of her vast repository of information she kept on all her enemies.

  Despite discovering the unexpected change of command, he entered Loren’s office, appearing aloof, unrepentant, and a little put out.

  “I hear congratulations are in order with your new position.”

  Loren waved him off. “Thank you, Dr. Vielle. I suggest we let bygones be bygones.”

  Mercy turned in her chair and gave him a middle finger wave. “Hey there, Dr. Vile. How’s it hanging? Performed any electroshock therapy lately? Hacked into any unsuspecting frontal lobes?”

  “Good morning, Mademoiselle Halstead.” He looked as if a gas bomb had been launched into the room. “How good to see you in such good health and with such . . . joie de vivre.”

  Loren continued, doing her best to sound ambivalent and nonconfrontational. “Speaking of health. We have been given information that only you can confirm.”

  He gave her a single head nod.

  “As you know, Mercy, or Mara, has a history of migraines. It has come to our attention that without surgical intervention, the prognosis is fatal. Is that the case?”

  Loren gripped the white leather padding covering the arms of her chair, causing fingernail gouges to appear.

  Ironic that Mercy continued to sway back and forth in her chair as if without a care in the world.