by Lou Paduano
“Sir?” Ben called out. He crept toward the back. A shot snapped in his direction. Ruth responded with her own barrage, keeping the man occupied long enough for Ben to reach the cashier counter. “Put the gun down, sir! We are federal agents! We want to help. We’re trying to find out what’s happened—”
The top of the DVD display shattered, crashing over Ben’s shaking body. He dropped his makeshift shield and dove for a nearby stack of printer boxes, one near his right foot taking the heat from a wide shot. Styrofoam exploded into the air.
Ruth stared at him from the edge of the endcap. She pointed to her right ear intently. “I don’t think he’s listening, Riley.”
Ben read the look and nodded. He crouched less than ten feet from the back displays of the electronics store. Ruth laid down another wave of cover and Ben realized the reason behind the miscommunication.
The shooter was wearing headphones. A direct connection kept him confined to the back of the store, the cable jacked into one of the stereos resting on a series of shelves on the opposite side.
Other devices, including a number of computer terminals still up and running, dinged sporadically. Ben didn’t recognize their purpose. They didn’t matter, though, not with bullets flying. All he needed was a second to explain. Something the man refused to offer, fear rampant in his swollen eyes.
Ben took a sharp breath. “Screw this.”
He stood and fired at the stereo bank across the store. Sparks flew as he emptied his clip into the unit.
“No!” the shooter yelled out as he fell to his knees in terror. He tapped the butt of his revolver against the headphone then ripped the apparatus from his head. Wheeling around to the now broken units, he panicked, trying to bring each to life, and in turn finding no success. “No, no, no, no…”
“Drop the weapon,” Ben demanded, Ruger locked on the man. His steps were cautious, even with Ruth working her way from the front of the shop.
“I’ve got him,” she noted.
Morgan nodded the same from her vantage. She stuck close to a quietly cursing Lincoln by her side.
“Why?” the man moaned. He raised the gun on the approaching agent. “Why would you do that?”
Ben kept his own weapon cocked and ready. “I only want to talk.”
“I would have talked!” the man shouted. “If I had known. I… I couldn’t be sure. Not after what happened. Not after he took it. But why would you do that?”
“The gun, sir,” Ben repeated. “Drop the gun.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” the man cried. The gun slipped from his hand.
Ben rushed to his side and kicked the pistol away, finally able to take a breath. “Why? Why doesn’t it matter?”
“Don’t you get it? Don’t you see?”
“See what?”
The man turned to the shattered stereo units and the dead headphones. Tears streaked his cheeks as panicked eyes locked on Ben. “You just killed me.”
Chapter Seventeen
Ben paced silently along the back of the store and waited. Bottles lined the wall leading to the office and beyond it the chain and padlock that had kept them from entering from multiple vantage points. A case of water and energy drinks made up one pile. The other was better left to the imagination, although the smell confirmed his suspicion.
Their shooter sat in a metal chair placed in the center of the open floor space. He ran his hands along stained sweatpants, unable to keep from fidgeting. The tattered robe was white, and not a robe at all upon closer inspection. It was, in fact, a labcoat, though rag would have been a more-apt description.
Surveying the store, Ben located the breaker panel and switched on the neighboring circuits to the one labeled STEREO DISPLAY. A thin row of lights flickered then held. The man in the chair shielded his swollen eyes from the sudden illumination.
No thanks came from the others. They were wrapped in discussion down the center aisle of the store. Any hope of meshing well out of the gate was a lost cause. If Ben hadn’t been distracting Ruth with his inane sarcasm she might have seen the shooter sooner. Hell, he might have as well.
“Sit down,” Ruth demanded, hand tight to Lincoln’s shoulder. Morgan struggled to clean his open wound. Crimson ran down his bicep.
“I’ll handle this guy, Ruth,” Lincoln snapped. “I know exactly how to handle him.”
“Just what we need,” Morgan grumbled.
“Dressing him up as a patient isn’t the answer, Morgan.”
“Neither is shooting him,” she argued. She tapped his arm and he pulled back in agony, holding back a scream. “Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
Ruth shook her head, then stepped away with Morgan in tow. Ben kept his distance. He circled the scene and the man at the center of their current predicament.
“How is Lincoln?”
“Bullet went through,” Morgan replied. “Bleeding has slowed, or rather it would if he would stop moving so damn much. He’ll live.”
Ruth rested heavily on a nearby display. Her hand covered her brow and her eyes snapped shut for a long moment.
“How are you doing, Ruth?”
“Fine.” She pushed past Morgan for the waiting medical kit, supplies scattered along the floor of the store. “Just need some aspirin.”
Morgan pointed to the cut along her arm, caked blood pinning her coat to the wound. “I can take a look if you’d—”
“Aspirin,” Ruth repeated.
“Bottom left. Small pocket in front.”
“Great.”
Morgan held her hands to her hip, hesitant to speak. Ruth retrieved the pills and downed three in one gulp. She tucked the bottle into her pocket and left Morgan to her patient.
“Enough of this,” Lincoln announced. He swiped the sweat from his brow and struggled for his feet. “I’m not going to sit here and—”
“He’s not well,” Morgan muttered, blocking his path. “Whatever is happening here might be affecting this man too.”
“Let it.”
“Shut the hell up, Linc,” Ruth ordered. “Morgan?”
“I’ll take care of the wound.”
“Good.” Ruth turned toward the seated man, surprised to see Ben already there. “Riley?”
Ben kept his focus on the shooter. He handed him a bottle of water. The ragged figure snapped open the bottle and took a long sip. “I figured we’d start with some simple questions.”
“Riley,” Lincoln shouted. “Let me handle—”
“It’s fine,” Ruth said in a calming tone. “Let him, Linc. Give him a chance.”
Ben smiled at the support, then continued, “I’m Ben. And you are—?”
The man, satisfied at his drink, let out a long breath. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, mister—?”
“Doctor.”
“Ah,” Ben said. “Apologies for not recognizing your title. I didn’t notice your diploma stapled to your forehead. Yet it still doesn’t quite answer my question.”
“Clevinger. Howard Clevinger.”
“You’re a rarity in Bellbrook, Doctor Clevinger. Care to explain why that is?”
“Lucky,” the doctor answered quickly. “Just lucky, I guess. Or was, anyway.”
“How long have you been holed up here?”
He surveyed the bottles in the corner and took a long whiff of his dingy undershirt beneath the labcoat. “Four days. More or less.”
Ben shivered. “I’d pick a place with a shower next time. Maybe pack a change of clothes too.”
“There wasn’t time!” Clevinger yelled, rising from his chair. Ruth raised her sidearm at the sudden movement. Her thin eyes studied the man’s intentions carefully. Clevinger’s panic faded and he collapsed along the chair once more. “Not much sleep, you know?”
Ben wiped the sweat along his brow. “Energy drinks might not have been the best choice. Maybe some warm milk next time?”
“Needed them to keep t
he sugar rush. Glucose in the bloodstream may play a role. Played a role…”
“In what?” Ruth asked, finger tapping lightly along the hilt of her weapon.
Clevinger shook his head, eyes to the floor and his ratty slippers. Ben crouched close. “Where is everyone, Clevinger?”
“Doctor.”
Ruth took a step closer. “When you explain what your degree is in you’ll get the title back. How about that?”
Ben shook his head. Antagonizing the suspect would only go so far. This man was on the edge. He needed a helping hand back. “I get it, I do. We’re trying to understand what happened—what is happening—here.”
The doctor clamped down on the armrests of the chair, and his lips pursed—refusing to open to the line of questions. Ben felt the daggers coming from his colleagues. Pushing for answers wasn’t working. He needed a new approach.
Ben rounded the chair once more, examining the man. Deep scars ran along the back of his hands. Numbers etched in his flesh from a long time ago. There was a 2 on one hand and an 8 on the other.
“Tell me about the scars. They look painful. Did you cut yourself?”
“No.”
“Why these numbers?” the agent pressed. “28? 82?”
“28.”
“Why 28?”
Clevinger tucked his hands into his pockets, refusing to meet Ben’s questioning gaze. Instead, he focused on Ruth down the aisle. “Biology. My degree is in biology.”
Ruth continued to roll her finger. “Fantastic.”
“Doctor, please,” Ben said. “We want to help. Where is everyone?”
“Gone,” he answered. “Just gone.”
“But not you? Why?”
“I was here.”
“You mean you broke in here,” Ruth commented, pointing to the shattered window.
“I had to,” Clevinger responded. “There wasn’t time.”
“It’s okay, Doctor. No one is going to blame you for that. However, we need to know: why only you?”
“I tried,” he said, hands frantically tapping along the chair. “I tried to tell them. Tried to make them see what was coming, but they…”
“Tell us.”
“You know already!”
Ben lowered his voice to calm the panicked man. “Doctor.”
Clevinger pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his swollen eyes. “They vanished. Small numbers at first. A block here. A neighborhood there. Peggy, the store manager, I thought she was still here. She wasn’t. Even the kids. Everyone.”
“Where did they go?”
“Exactly!” he exclaimed. “I asked. I did. When it was reports and randomness. Only it never is, is it? No one cared. About any of it. Neighbors. Friends. Even family. People simply gone and no one, not even the police, could be bothered. It was in their eyes. You could see it in their eyes, you know?”
Ben didn’t. He had no clue what the man was telling them. All he could read was the terror in every word and the fear in his voice. “You said you knew what was happening.”
“I… I recognized it,” Clevinger said, unable to peer directly at the questioning agent. “From my work. Migratory patterns based on biological triggers—environmental, systemic, and chemical. This was different.”
“You found the signal,” Ruth said.
Clevinger’s eyes sparked with recognition. “Constantly moving, but always broadcasting. With its presence, people changed. Eruption of emotion followed by silence. I wanted to leave, but I could feel it. Inside. Started to hear it. Every movement, every beat, right in—”
“You said moving.”
“I did, yes.”
“You’ve been tracking it?”
His gaze lowered, then it turned to the shattered displays along the wall. “I was.”
Ben shook his head. “But you’re not affected.”
“I was, then I wasn’t. Now, thanks to you…?”
“I didn’t know,” Ben said—not only to the doctor but also to the irritated Ruth Heller.
Clevinger reached for the headphones on the floor. He lifted them to his ear before dropping them once more. “Hair band rock. Mid to late 80s. Blocked the noise.”
He continued to mutter and Ben left him to it for a time. Ruth waited nearby and the two leaned close, eyes always locked on the man.
“You believing any of this?” The question left his lips and he wondered if he had his own answer.
“He knows what happened, but he’s hiding more than a little something.”
“Agreed. What though?”
Ruth shook her head. “From what I can see of the equipment he jerry-rigged, he definitely appeared to be tracking something.”
“Look,” Ben started. “I didn’t—”
“Enough new guy,” Lincoln interjected from down the aisle. “Finish the song and dance with this yahoo.”
Ben nodded. “All right, Doctor Clevinger. Where is it now?”
“What?” the man asked, terror rising. “You can’t. I mean, you can, but proximity might be a factor and your exposure…”
“We’re fine. Or so I’ve been told. Now where—?”
Clevinger jumped to his feet. He pushed Ben aside and rushed for the front of the store. Ruth reached out to stop him, though her hand fell away at Ben’s silent insistence. Morgan and Lincoln followed suit and all stuck close to the staggered steps of the man in slippers.
“It’s stationary,” Clevinger said as he stepped out of the store. “It has been for the last twenty-four hours.”
“Where?”
Rain began to drip from the heavens, the clouds above gray and dark. Clevinger pointed west. “Where do you think?”
All turned to face the vast forest looming at the edge of town.
Chapter Eighteen
Coffee spilled from the lip of Zac Modine’s cup, catching him along the wrist. The steaming liquid pooled along the counter as he reached for a towel. He dabbed his hand before wiping the counter clean. His fingers paused at the end, hovering beside the washbin of stored cups used by the staff. Most brought their own and left them at their desk. Some simply forgot about them after a long day. One, however, was displayed prominently—never to be forgotten.
Grissom’s cup.
It read #1 Secret Agent on the label in bright bold lettering. There were mock bullet holes in the background that were mirrored on the opposite side. Grissom had always held tight to the mug, mingling in the break room with the staffers and researchers rather than sitting in his office.
Zac rubbed at his eyes and turned away. Exhaustion was catching up with him. He wasn’t surprised. Three days on shift with nothing more than a six-hour rest in the living quarters on the fourth floor offered him little recharge time. The extra shifts weren’t mandatory. No, this was on him and only him.
He took another swing at drinking some coffee and met with success. The dark brew seared his insides down to his gut. He leaned against the counter and savored the sip.
The break room of the DSA held dozens of tables and chairs, but few occupied the space. Most of the staff remained at their stations to pick away at the constant flow of work. It was the nature of the agency. A catch-all related to more than the work itself, but to the people employed in the warehouse in Bethesda. Employees housed within had been given a second chance to make something of their lives.
Zac saw it time and again with recruitment. Those in need, those wishing to continue after an error in judgment or a mistake out of their control, were brought in over others hoping to play the typical politics that inhabited every government bureaucracy from the post office to the White House. Right or left didn’t matter. The DSA stood above that and asked for the same in return.
Scanning the room for the ideal spot, Zac spotted Stephanie Atwater. She sipped her tea, book in hand, focused on the written word before her. Zac strode over and sat beside her.
Stephanie closed her book. She lifted her mug and he did
the same. “You know this can’t last,” she said with a smile.
As the words left her lips the door to the room slammed open. Metcalf entered, heels clacking against the laminate.
Zac head sank. “You said it, not me.”
Stephanie stood and straightened her skirt. “Director? How can I—?”
“I came for Zac.” He shot up, wiping at a dribble of coffee from his chin. “If you have a second, that is?”
“Yeah,” he replied. He put his cup down, hesitated for a moment, then picked it up again. The contents ran over the lip and down his fingers. “Of course.”
Stephanie sat, a smile on her face as she opened her book.
“Lucky,” he whispered before following Metcalf for the door.
“I usually am.”
Metcalf led him into the hall and around the corner. The dull roar from the bullpen at the heart of the first level dipped into the background.
Zac finished his coffee, careful to keep from spilling any further. “What can I—?”
“There certainly seems to be a buzz in the air this evening,” Greg Sullivan said. He followed their movements around the corner. Metcalf’s eyes flared hot before she tempered them with a grin at his arrival. Sullivan ran a hand through his beard. “Anything going on I should know about? Or the Council?”
“Just another day in paradise, Greg,” Metcalf quickly responded. “I was just about to go over some routine protocols with Zac, if you’d like to join us.”
“Routine? Pass,” Sullivan said. He tucked his hands deep into his pockets and started down the hall. “I’ve had my fill today. Think I’ll head home for the night.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Sullivan nodded without looking. Metcalf waited until he was near the exit, then motioned for her office. They stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him.
“You did tell him about the Bellbrook operation, right?”
Her eyes thinned. “Have you traced the server used to give us the case?”