by Dayton Ward
From where he stood behind his partner, Baldwin said, “Alfred, we don’t want to appear insensitive to your loss, but we’re a little pressed for time. I hope you’ll understand if we cut to the chase.” Though the man’s tone was casual, Alfred sensed an underlying tension in both agents. They looked tired, as though they had not slept in quite some time. Something was keeping them here rather than allowing them to go home, and it was wearing on them.
“Very well,” Alfred said. Pointing to the large mirror dominating the wall behind the agents, he asked, “Are your questions for your own benefit, or for whoever is behind that one-way glass?”
Without batting an eye, Baldwin replied, “Both, actually.” Stepping closer to the table, he opened the folder in his hand and extracted what Alfred recognized as a glossy photograph, which he laid on the table. “Is this the woman you encountered last night?”
Alfred gazed down at the photo and could not help the involuntary gasp that caught in his throat. From out of the picture, striking green eyes bored into him. The woman’s slim, angular face was framed by short red hair cut in a style that reminded him of his dear Abigail.
“Dear God,” he said, bringing his hand to his mouth. “Yes, that’s her. Her name is…Lona…something.” Alfred found it odd yet interesting that he had not managed to grasp this simple piece of information from the woman while they were linked.
Leaning forward and allowing her forearms to rest on the table, Agent Skouris pointed to the photograph. “Her name is Lona Callahan. Do you believe she was part of the group you met at the warehouse?”
Shaking his head, Alfred replied, “Not at all. Indeed, she was the one who put an end to whatever plans they had.” His preliminary statement had included quite a bit of information regarding Darren Abbott and the small group of followers who were with him at the warehouse. He also had included his own reprehensible actions in the days leading up to their meeting, and had come to NTAC prepared to accept whatever consequences might result from his admission. However, Baldwin and Skouris seemed not at all interested in hearing about the rogue 4400 and his band.
No, Alfred decided, it was not that they were disinterested. Instead, finding this other woman, the one who had killed Abbott and his men, seemed simply to be a higher priority.
Baldwin leaned toward the table and placed his hands palms down on the table. “Alfred, did you have direct contact with Lona Callahan? Were you able to read her mind?”
His eyes still locked on the photo, Alfred nodded. “Yes, I was.” Upon being taken to the NTAC office in Las Vegas, he had informed agents there of his ability, at first thinking they would be skeptical if not a bit surprised to hear such a tale. Of course, he realized in short order that the agents had been dealing with the 4400 for nearly a year. They likely had been hearing about and investigating all manner of bizarre claims and incidents since the release of the returnees from quarantine. It would be much the same for Baldwin and Skouris, who Twenter knew were not only among the agents at the forefront of investigating the 4400 but were also currently trying to solve the murder of Jordan Collier. For them to be here, now, and asking him about this uncanny woman told Alfred that his chance encounter with her was of great importance to them.
Baldwin had taken a seat in one of the other chairs, turning it so that he straddled it and rested his forearms atop its straight back. “Can you tell us what you saw?” he asked.
Frowning, Alfred replied, “I’ll do my best, but sorting through another person’s thoughts can be quite difficult, even more so when it comes to this woman.”
“Just do the best you can,” Skouris said, her voice low and calm. “Why is it different with her? Was she able to resist you in some way?”
Alfred shook his head. “No, nothing like that.” Pausing, he searched for the right words, frustrated at the effort it took to convey what he had plumbed from the depths of Lona Callahan’s mind. He held up both hands, hoping to illustrate what he wanted to say.
“It’s almost as though she possesses a dual personality. At first, her mind seemed precisely disciplined. She’s a trained killer, an expert at what she does, having learned from the best. I also sensed that she’s completing a mission of personal importance, but after filtering through all of that, I found something else.” He grimaced, knowing how this next part would sound. “It was like an overriding, unerring sense of larger purpose, one dictated to her by a higher power she is completely dedicated to serve. What I found odd about this was that she doesn’t seem to know who or what this other authority might be.”
“Like she’s on some sort of internal jihad?” Baldwin asked. “A holy mission?”
Alfred frowned, not certain if that was an apt description. “I’m not sure, because she seems so conflicted. Much of the time, she’s very committed to her personal quest, which I sense is motivated from a standpoint of self-protection or even survival, as though the people she targets represent threats to her.” Noting the look Baldwin exchanged with Skouris, he knew his read of Lona Callahan, as muddled as it might be within his own mind, was still accurate.
“You said she was this way much of the time,” Skouris said. “What about other times?”
Nodding, Alfred replied, “On those occasions, when this ‘higher calling’ comes into play, she seems compelled to set aside that goal. As strange as this sounds, it’s almost like she’s driven by what she considers her…destiny, as if she’s fulfilling a predetermined role in history. This instills in her a formidable self-confidence, as though she already knows she’ll succeed.” Unable to interpret the fixed expressions on the faces of both agents, he slumped back in his chair. “I know how crazy this all must sound.”
“Not really,” Baldwin said, offering a tired smile. “After this past year, nothing sounds crazy to me anymore.”
“Well, it gets crazier,” Alfred said, before explaining the incredible speed he had seen the woman demonstrate. “She ran like Mercury,” he said, shaking his head. “It was amazing,”
“Par for the course, these days,” Baldwin replied. Shaking his head, he added, “When did I start taking this kind of thing for granted? When exactly did that happen?”
“About ten minutes after that ball of light showed up,” Skouris said, looking up from where she was jotting notes at a furious pace on the pad inside her portfolio. To Alfred, she said, “This higher purpose or calling you mentioned. What do you think it is?”
Alfred reached up to adjust his glasses. “I knew you’d ask me that. This is where it starts to get very jumbled for me.” He gritted his teeth, recalling the rapid-fire succession of images that had threatened to engulf him during his connection to Callahan. “In her mind, when she is called to act against a fellow returnee, it’s as though she sees herself as an equalizer, an authority charged with maintaining what she understands to be a ‘balance’ among the returnees.” Skouris reacted to that phrasing, blinking several times as though unsure of what she had just heard, or that the words had triggered some other memory. “Agent Skouris? Is something wrong?”
Shaking her head, she replied, “No. It’s nothing.” Her eyes narrowed as she regarded him. “A balance? Between what?”
Alfred searched the memories he had collected, those belonging to Callahan as well as whatever other consciousness dwelled within her mind. “Somehow, the force guiding her actions employs her when something is detected that it believes affects whatever social or historical course the returnees are meant to travel, as though scales were being tipped one way or another.” Sighing, he added, “I’m afraid it doesn’t get much more specific than that, at least so far as she’s concerned. It’s as though information is compartmentalized, and she’s given just what she needs to accomplish her tasks, which are designed either to maintain or restore this balance.”
Baldwin said, “Hell of a way to balance a scale.”
“She doesn’t seem to see it that way,” Alfred countered. “I mean, it’s how she’s trained to respond to a threat. She neutrali
zes it.”
Rising from his chair, Baldwin began to pace the room. “So, any 4400 who steps out of line, Callahan is programmed to take them out? Eric Wheaton and Darren Abbott jumped ship from whatever big plan the 4400 are here to carry out, so they ended up on her radar? What about some of these other splinter groups of 4400s we’ve been hearing about? Will she go after them? What about Robert Fields? He never made any such threats, so far as we know of, anyway.” He pointed to Alfred. “What about you, for that matter? Why didn’t she kill you? You’re not a threat to her?”
It was a notion Alfred already had considered several times. While he may not have presented a hazard to Lona Callahan during their previous encounter, what did the future hold?
Skouris shrugged. “Maybe he fits into the plan in some other way, something we don’t understand yet.”
“Yeah, that narrows things down,” Baldwin snapped.
Something Skouris had said seemed to resonate with Alfred or, more accurately, the memories he carried within him. “You may be on to something. I didn’t get a sense that she was acting out simply to stop violence, but rather that she was taking whatever action was necessary to protect the greater goal.”
Skouris said, “Of course, for all we know, the greater goal might eventually hinge on violence at some point.”
The three of them sat silently for a moment, before Baldwin abruptly looked at his wristwatch. “You’ve been a great help to us, Alfred,” he said. “If you don’t mind, we’d like you to stay in Seattle until we clear this up, just in case we have additional questions.”
Alfred sighed. “I can’t say that I’m in a hurry to get home.” There was nothing—no one—waiting for him. “Do you know what will happen to me?”
“I don’t know,” Skouris replied. “There may be more questions, and the NTAC offices in Las Vegas will certainly want to talk to you about Darren Abbott and his people.”
“And after that?” Alfred asked. He knew he likely would have to answer for some of his actions, but would the cooperation he had shown here place him in good stead? The idea of using his abilities to help others, perhaps even helping law enforcement or agencies such as NTAC to do their jobs better, carried an appeal he could not ignore, he decided. While the future he had envisioned all those years ago had not yet come to pass, Alfred now was thinking that perhaps there was something he could do to help bring it about.
Baldwin said, “Hard to say, Alfred. A lot of it will depend on…” He paused, as though unwilling to complete his sentence.
Nodding, Alfred knew what he was about to say.
“A lot of it depends on what Lona Callahan does next.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
“WATCH YOUR HEAD.”
Reiko felt the female guard’s hand on the back of her neck as she was guided up the step and into the back of the gray prisoner transport van. She entered the rear of the armored vehicle, surprised by the uniformed woman’s politeness as she carried out her duties. The guard’s demeanor was notably out of place, particularly when contrasted against that of her partner, who stood watch over the proceedings with a shotgun cradled in his muscled arms.
Her soft-soled shoes still made enough noise against the metal floor of the passenger compartment to echo within it, and the odor of industrial-strength cleanser stung her nostrils. Reiko settled herself onto a bench running the length of the transport’s left side, moving somewhat gingerly to compensate for the lack of mobility in her right arm—now in a sling to favor her aching shoulder. She leaned her left side into the cool steel, rather than sitting with her back flat against it, trying to keep from irritating her wounded shoulder.
“We’re headed to the Sea-Tac Federal Detention Center,” the guard offered as she reached over to chain Reiko’s ankles to the floor at the base of the steel bench seat, then secured the manacles around her wrists to an eyebolt on the bench next to her right leg. “You’re looking at about thirty minutes in here.” Over her shoulder, Reiko saw the guard’s partner scowling at her, the shotgun in his hands gleaming in the late-afternoon sun.
Reiko nodded in mute reply. Thirty minutes, even a solid day in the small, cramped transport would be a respite from her time in federal custody. Her questioning had been relentless almost from the moment of her capture. When she awakened in an NTAC medical center following treatment of her gunshot wound, agents were there. When she was released and taken to a holding cell, agents waited for her. Every moment of every day, when she ate, when she was allowed brief periods to rest, when she used the toilet, an agent was present. As the woman guard secured her restraints before taking her own seat on the opposite bench, Reiko gave silent thanks as her partner shut the transport door, locking her and the woman guard inside. It prevented yet another NTAC agent from jumping aboard and joining her for the trip.
Her eyes still were adjusting to the low level of illumination allowed by the transport’s small, louvered window slits as the van’s diesel engine rumbled to life and the vehicle lurched forward. Across from her, the female guard sat in silence. Though she had treated her with decency if not compassion, the woman now seemed content to undertake the journey to the detention center without saying another word, leaving Reiko alone with her thoughts.
She reflected on her time in custody, her guilt weighing on her as she felt the van’s movements reverberate through the bench. The questions she faced while in custody had run the gamut, beginning with the usual inquiries as to her own identity before moving with all due haste to focus on Lona. One agent in particular, a man named Baldwin, had possessed a definite edge, and he questioned her at length about her relationship to Lona, how long she had known her, her past history and her current mission. The demands for information about Lona’s newfound abilities carried a particular intensity, even though Reiko sensed that Baldwin already knew almost as much as she did herself.
The agent struck her as very driven, as though he held a personal stake in finding and capturing Lona. In a way, Reiko admired this facet of the man. Baldwin’s obvious passion to know more, and his willingness to press her as hard and as far as he felt was necessary to get what he wanted, reminded Reiko in some ways of Lona herself. Reiko also derived some small amount of satisfaction from the way Baldwin grew more frustrated each time she told him that. She made sure to tell him that a lot.
Baldwin’s partner, the slim, angular-faced woman named Skouris, was not nearly as aggressive, though she had been no less determined. Still, there had been a quality to her that reminded Reiko of her former lover, Carmen. Maybe it was the agent’s demeanor during the questioning, her ability to be businesslike yet personable at the same time. Reiko felt almost compelled to like her, to trust her, even though she was well aware of this attempted connection between captor and prisoner as a time-honored interrogation technique. Still, she had sensed in Skouris an empathy, almost as though she might understand what it was like to know a 4400 returnee—to love a 4400 returnee—and the special challenges brought about by such love.
Despite this supposed connection, artificial though Reiko knew it was, she had resisted all attempts to glean information about Lona from her. When their efforts failed, Baldwin and Skouris had wasted little time in altering their approach. With time very much an issue, Reiko would now be handed over to “interrogation specialists,” who she knew would administer to her all manner of drugs, compounds that would make her mind pliable and agreeable to suggestion.
Why they had not done so from the outset was a mystery. Reiko knew she only would be able to resist for a short time before the drugs that soon would course through her body compelled her to reveal everything she guarded within the depths of her mind. However, she could at least take some satisfaction from knowing that she had withstood all of the previous interrogation attempts. Whatever happened next would be beyond her control. Lona would understand.
Something slammed into the van, the impact jostling her and the guard as the vehicle jerked to the right. Th
e violent motion shoved Reiko against the bulkhead and she grunted as pain racked her wounded shoulder. With her hands secured to the bench her center of gravity was compromised, and she had to brace her feet to maintain her balance as the transport was struck a second time.
“What the hell?” the guard shouted, holding on to the bench to avoid being tossed to the floor of the compartment. Reaching for the radio clipped to her belt, she brought the unit to her mouth. “What’s going on up there?”
The only response was another impact, forceful enough to tilt the van up on its right wheels. Reiko pitched forward, crying out as her motion was arrested by the restraints pulling on her injured arm. The guard was thrown into the bulkhead behind her, wincing and groaning in protest as her head struck the metal. Her radio fell from her hand, clattering to the deck as the van fell back to the left.
“Jesus,” the guard croaked as she reached up to rub her injured head. “Hang on,” she said, and Reiko felt the van rock as the driver pumped the brakes before stomping on the accelerator. The transport’s engine began to howl as the vehicle surged forward.
Hang on. The words rang in her ears. Like I have a choice.
There was an audible popping sound from somewhere outside the van and when the vehicle lurched to the left, this time it kept going. Reiko fell flat against the bulkhead as the transport rolled onto its side, tossing the guard across the open space until she struck the wall. She screamed and Reiko heard bone snap just as the compartment was filled with the sounds of scraping, rending metal as the van slid along the pavement. Several seconds passed before the transport came to a stop, its engine still running. Reiko heard the van’s engine die. Inside the passenger compartment, the overhead light was broken, the only illumination now coming through the window slats on the van’s right side, which now looked up toward the sky.