“Who said…” Then Clare remembered. “ARC. Those people at the retreat have done this. Maybe they sent the flowers.”
Dominic shrugged. Clare looked to her friends. Tina, Terrick, Candace. All their faces were blank, seemingly innocent with the shared secret. “What people?” They said in unison.
“Terrick, after all this can you stand that? What will you do?”
“Me? I'm carryin' on my job in Holden, as it should be.”
“Detective Svinsky will carry on with her job,” Dominic continued. “God knows the department needs some stability. You will need to go back of course, Clare. Who would want to lose such a proficient analytical mind as yours?”
“I feel I've changed. I don't know if I want to go back to the same job. That Vulcan badge over there on my jacket was from a time when pure logic got results. If this has taught me anything, it's to really go with my gut. Maybe there's a happy medium. Maybe I have a chance to demonstrate the best of both worlds?” She looked down at her bed, the white sheets folded with precision. “I'm just not sure. Too much has gone on here. I'll never forget those eyes, those soulless eyes. How are things like that even real?”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
It was mid-November. The leaves were falling in abundance from trees throughout Massachusetts, creating a riotous carpet of red, yellow and brown wherever Clare walked. The Worcester Police Department building loomed above, traffic roaring up the highway behind her. Clare dithered around the outside of the pitted concrete behemoth, hesitant to go in. It appeared the chief had taken her thoughts about Harley's office to heart, vast areas of the floor appeared to have been demolished under a warren of tarpaulin-covered scaffolding. Six weeks out had certainly seen a lot of changes to Clare as well as those around her.
A radiant blonde descended the steps to greet her. Clad in a new and rather snug-fitting skirt and jacket, Tina Svinsky stopped a couple of meters away from her. “Well see here. The wanderer returns and not a moment too soon either.” Tina proceeded to brush mock-dust from the shoulders of Clare's brown suit. “You look great. I couldn't tell you'd ever been ill.”
Clare smiled, feeling at peace more now than she had ever done in the past ten years. “Congratulations, Lieutenant.”
Tina had the good grace to blush. “Aww, shucks. If it weren't for you, then this place would still be the same rotting den of corruption it always was. Harley would probably be chief and you'd be in a shallow grave, one way or another. How goes the treatment?”
“It's still a little odd. I don't think I'll ever get used to it.”
Tina grinned. “Go on then, show it to me.”
Very self-conscious, Clare nonetheless lifted the hem of her blouse, pulling a small black mechanism about two inches by three from a skin-coloured pouch she wore close to her skin. A wire-thin tube stuck out one end, curling in loops from the machine to a small bandage on her skin.
“That's it?” Tina seemed surprised.
“It's not exactly kidney dialysis. I take a pin prick of blood and measure my blood sugar on a small handset, then program any changes to the pump by remote. Change this canula every other day,” Clare pointed to the bandage, “and the insulin cartridge every four. Simple. The rest is diet and exercise. I'm not without incidents but I'm getting there.”
“It sure beats the alternative. So you ready?”
Clare closed her eyes and took a series of deep breaths. Twin orbs stared at her from within the privacy of her mind. She locked them in a box, storing the memory as a reminder that she had a responsibility to herself. Life was precious. “I'm ready.”
Tina turned and led the way up to the main doors of the precinct lobby. Clare followed, pushing through the doors and coming to a stop just inside. The hallways were now free of litter.
“Like it?”
“I hardly recognize the place.”
“Following Harley's rapid downfall, the whole precinct's been given a new lease of life through sudden and quite extensive funding. It seems the corruption was quite far spread and when Harley fell, all his adjuncts toppled like dominos.” Clare had her suspicions about the source and these were confirmed when Tina led her into the room that had previously been Harley's office. It now held a conference table.
“I trust you find the precinct more to your liking?” Clare didn't recognize the man in a dark blue suit with his captain's badge hanging over the belt of his trousers. He was tall, with mousy-blond hair and a goatee. Perching on the edge of the table he looked quite at ease in this environment. He was quite different to the previous occupant, but not the only occupant of the room. Another man in a beige suit stood staring out of the window toward the city's skyline. “It's a vast improvement,” she replied.
“I'm Captain Andy Cassell, homicide, narcotics and whatever else they decide to throw at me until the new chain of command is fully established. I'm looking for new detectives, Miss Rosser, and you're top of my list. How do you fancy moving out of the lab and undergoing training?”
The offer stunned Clare. After so long stuck in the guts of the building she finally had a chance at a new beginning. Yet something nagged at her, like this was too much of a temptation. Was this a reward for her near-death experience? Maybe. Maybe not.
“That sounds wonderful,” she said with genuine gratitude, “but the only case I ever really wanted to solve was the death of my parents. I've done that now. Perhaps I'll take your offer another day, if you still think I'm worthy of it.”
Captain Cassell watched her for a moment, stroking his goatee. “Tina said you'd probably say something like that. Consider the offer open-ended.” To Tina he said, “Lieutenant, I've got a few ideas I'd like to run by you in my office.” He led the way out, Tina moving with her tiny, rapid steps behind him.
Clare found herself left alone in the conference room with the stranger, who still had not turned.
“He wasn't wrong, you know. You have great potential, more than even you perhaps realize.”
“Thank you.” Clare poured a glass of water for herself, then one for the stranger. Lifting hers, she took a small sip. The ice-cold water went down her throat with such exquisite pleasure she shivered. It was nectar. The stranger turned and took the glass, raising it. “To your good health,” he said with a smile. “It's nice to be in control, no?”
His accent was European, though beyond that Clare couldn't pin it down. A mix of English, French, maybe some Dutch. What was recognisable was his face. The eyes were less hard, the jaw set at a softer angle. “You were stood beside Julian Strange when he argued Harley down.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Some people are just so used to throwing their weight around they forget what it's like to have to back down. I don't back down, and neither do those I work with. My name is Swanson Guyomard, Clare. Your work and your resilience in the face of such a potentially devastating illness has been noted. Your willingness to go the extra mile and seek out illogical solutions; they've all brought you to the attention of my colleagues, who insisted I meet you.”
It all clicked. “Those were your people at the artists' retreat. Scope. Ellen Covlioni.”
“My people are everywhere. My organization… well let's say it has its fingers in lots of pies.”
“Yeah but so did Harley.”
“True but he was small time. You want to know what became of the man? You, Clare; you happened to him. You happened right from the very start. Your boiler suit had a camera. We saw everything.”
“You could have stopped this from the very start,” Clare accused. “Logan. My parents. Those children.”
“We were too late for your parents, Clare. I could have stopped Harley at that point; yet what would we have learned from ending a story before it started? My people are forced to make desperate decisions every day. We wanted to see what you were made of. Besides, you wanted this. It was your plan to try and trap the creature in the city. When that didn't work you took it upon yourself to draw it out. We need people with t
hat sort of gusto.”
“Why? What could a diabetic possibly offer you?”
Swanson gave her a sly look, his eyes narrowed. “Is that how you see yourself? Is that what defines you?”
The comment gave Clare sufficient cause to doubt her words. Don't begin this stage of your life relying on excuses, Clare. “No. I'm a survivor.”
“Damned right that's what you are. You are not a diabetic. You're a woman, a human being. You have qualities the likes of which many people would give their right arm to possess. You are defined by what you do in life, not by what you are.”
“And who are you? What is your role in this?”
Swanson sat down and folded his hands together on the desk. “I am the man who is going to recruit you into my organization. You will be the first of many.”
“I already turned down the captain. What makes you think I won't do the same to you?”
Swanson smiled. “We recently had a situation in Afghanistan. Another young lady from this very city showed her mettle there, too.”
“I've seen the news reports. There was some great light show on top of a mountain in the Hindu Kush region. It was all out of focus.”
“Would you like to know the truth behind the excuses? Would you like to see what we are really up against? You might end up understanding that Viruñas was just a sideshow, the merest of distractions.”
For the first time in months she was truly intrigued. It was an invigorating feeling. “Go on.”
“You rid the world of a menace. Viruñas was one of the soulless. He was part human, part supernatural being. That takes guts. That sort of thing comes to my notice. I want to recruit you. Here. Now. I think you know enough of my organization to understand this is not an open-ended offer.”
Swanson waited with patience. 'Never appear too eager', Jeff often said.
“I'm in.”
“Excellent. Your first task isn't far from home. Do you know West Labs?”
Clare frowned. “You mean that Biopharmaceutical facility over by Worcester State Hospital?”
“Something's amiss there and I need someone on the ground.”
“For how long?”
“Until you find the answers.”
Swanson was being coy but Clare knew the feel of a negotiation. “I found the answers about my parents and you want me to serve a higher purpose, right?”
“It's not without its benefits.” Swanson opened a briefcase and pulled out a laptop, folding the screen open and turning it toward Clare. As the screen powered up, it revealed a picture of a woman smiling, touching close with a brown-haired man in a ponytail.
“The woman's name is Eva Ross. The man she's with is called Madden Scott.”
“Eva? I have a half-sister by that name. She looks familiar.”
“She should be. Eva's been in the media a lot lately. Working in Worcester State. On the run halfway across the country. That light show in Afghanistan. She's been very busy.”
“No, it's more than that.”
Swanson watched her for a moment. “You're most perceptive. You know the name of your biological father, yes?”
“Bud Maygan. Viruñas knew the name.”
“We think Viruñas has been around a very long time. Perhaps centuries. It is only a pawn in this game. Those responsible for setting it loose on the world have been tracking Eva and her entire family for generations.” Swanson leaned forward. “Your entire family.”
“My…”
“Eva Ross is the daughter of Bud Maygan. She's your half-sister. So here's the deal. Get to the bottom of West Labs. Find what's festering there. Once you are done and Eva has finished her tasks, there is a top position waiting for you in Geneva if you would like it. I will arrange for the both of you to meet.”
Clare felt the sting of the bargain, exhaling involuntarily through her nose. “If I get you your answers… what have I got to lose? Okay, I'm in.”
Swanson let crack a little smile. “Excellent. Clare, welcome to Anges de la Résurrection des Chevaliers. Welcome to ARC.”
Epilogue
Dean Bartow perched on the end of his bed, alone but for the chirping of bluebirds outside. He stared at the smeared glass of the window, not seeing the empty house beyond, not truly. Instead he imagined a time when people lived there. The woman, her brother. Even the cat. His father, on the rare occasion he had happened by, always fixated on the family that had lived there. They shared a common bond, one that excluded him from the rest of his family. He had rescued his father from Worcester Hospital, his hero a broken man. And then she had ended it, stabbing him in the dark. Dean stared at the window, hatred infusing his entire being; his only thought was one of vengeance. He had watched as men had loaded up a truck with everything from the house. He had wandered through the barren halls after they had left. She wasn't coming back.
So now Dean watched, and plotted. He would grow, he would hunt. He would find her and he would avenge his father. The world was not big enough to hide her. Behind him, on the floor a series of bodies filled one side of his tiny room. His mother, his siblings, grandparents. All twisted and empty, drained of fluid. He understood the hunger now, accepted it. He had nobody to help him. He would do this alone. Dean stared at the window. Two glowing eyes stared back.
About the Author
Matthew W. Harrill lives in the idyllic South-West of England, nestled snugly in a village in the foothills of the Cotswolds. Born in 1976, he attended school in Bristol and received a degree in Geology from Southampton University. By day he plies his trade implementing share plans. By night he spends his time with his wife and four children.
http://www.matthewharrill.com/
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