“What did you do? After he showed you these tests?”
“I made arrangements to begin human testing. On willing volunteers.”
“I’m going to assume this trial was off the books.”
“It was.”
“How did it go?”
“Not well.”
“How not well? Is that explained in this file?”
“It went so badly I shut down Project Bluebird six months later. Pulled all Dylan’s funding and denied him access to his labs.”
Bluebird. The word lances through her. The bird in the cage. The bird waiting to be set free. The bird she almost killed as a child. Anyone who knows her story would know the symbolism, and Dylan picked it as the name for the most important work of his career.
“So, very badly. What happened to the subjects? These willing volunteers?”
“Charley—”
“I thought we were trusting each other,” she says.
While none of the men across from her reaches for a weapon, they stiffen at her volume; this subtle reminder of what she’s capable of, and how they’re trapped in a confined, airborne space with those skills.
“They tore themselves apart,” Cole answers. “Quite literally. We called it going lycan.”
He lets her absorb this. Lets it sink in—how much danger Dylan put her in by giving her the drug without her consent. The possibility of being raped by Jason Briffel was the least of it.
“We conducted extensive psychological profiles on each man to determine what his fears and phobias were. We tried to avoid asking the question directly, because we didn’t want them to anticipate the tests that lay ahead. Once the profile was complete, we took them to a secure location and set them loose in a kind of obstacle course, where they were presented with different physical variations of their greatest fears. For some it was confined spaces; for others it was the possibility of drowning. A snake in an unexpected place. We called it the Fear Matrix.”
“But it worked,” she said. “They each got triggered.”
“Yes. But unlike in the animal testing he’d done, they didn’t direct their aggression outward. They directed their aggression at what they saw as the real source of their fear. Themselves. Their minds and the bodies those minds controlled. We did everything we could to stop them. But imagine the strength you just showed Frederick Pemberton channeled entirely into self-destructive impulses, along with aggression toward anyone or anything who tried to block those impulses once they were triggered. And imperviousness to any drugs we could dart them with. Imagine that, and you will have some sense of the nightmare Dylan Cody unleashed in our labs.”
Our labs, she thinks. A secure location. Where? An island? She doubts that’s in the file, and she doubts he’d tell her the truth if she asked.
“You tested all these men at once?” she asks.
“No. The second, third, and fourth all went in believing there was something inherent in their character that would allow them to improve on the results of the man who went before. After Dylan convinced them of this, of course.”
“And then you shut it down?”
“And then Dylan came to me and told me he thought the problem was that we were only testing it on men. And that we should start testing it on women. And then I shut it down.”
“So he left the company?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t have him followed?” she asked.
“For a time. He bounced from city to city. Worked odd jobs so far beneath his pay grade I thought he might disappear forever. He was drinking heavily. It was clear there was no connection to family. No friends. His uncle passed away several years ago. There’s an inheritance of some kind stashed away. But he doesn’t spend it very often. If there’s a lot to spend, that is.”
“Not a lot to a man with his own helicopter, probably,” she says.
“Touché.” Cole smiles, but his smiles are becoming more strained with each passing minute of this flight. “I thought his failure, what happened to those men, had broken him.”
“And you were wrong,” she says.
Cole sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees and staring directly into her eyes. “If I’d had one inkling of what he was going to do to you, Charlotte, I would have stopped him. You must know this. You must believe this.”
“How?”
“I would have had no shortage of ideas on that front. I guarantee you. I don’t run a convenience store. I’m the CEO of one of the most powerful companies in the world.”
There’s no arguing with the icy conviction in his tone.
“So that’s why Zypraxon works on me?” she asks. “Because I’m a woman?”
“No.”
She must be visibly startled by his answer. He gives her a few seconds to recover.
“Dylan says he altered the formula a bit and tested it in another woman before you. The results were apparently as catastrophic as he should have expected.”
“Did she . . .”
“He says she agreed to it, knowing the risks. But I no longer put much stock in anything Dylan says. Do you?”
“You tell me. Your history with him is . . . longer than mine.”
Is he wincing or smiling or both? She can’t tell.
“What do you want from me, Cole Graydon? Just my blood?”
“You’re angry with me. Even after all I’ve told you. Can you tell me why?”
“You allowed him to do this.”
“That’s not true. I told you, I had no idea he was even in Arizona, much less that he’d made contact with you under false pretenses. When he came to me after the mess he made with those bikers, he was desperate. He was pretending like he’d planned it all, but it was clear he hadn’t. He’d lost you, and he was on the run, and he knew that both of you would be in serious trouble if I didn’t step in right away.”
“You put me under constant surveillance. You allowed him to watch my every move.”
“No, I watched your every move, because you were a miracle, Charlotte, and even you knew it. Because the drug was working for the first time, and on top of that, you seemed determined to actually use it. As for your surveillance, I fed him only what I wanted him to see, which was almost nothing. I also kept law enforcement from following a trail from that biker massacre to your uncle Marty’s front door in Altamira. Right now Dylan’s holed up in a shack outside of Tucson under constant surveillance, and he’ll be there for the rest of his natural life if I so choose. Or someplace worse.”
“He said I had to perform. He said I had to put on a show for all of you. He said you were so rich and powerful there was no outrunning you.”
“He was wrong, and I’m here to tell you how.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m here to tell you how to make us all go away, if that’s what you want. If that’s truly what you want. I’m here to do the thing Dylan didn’t do in Arizona.”
“What’s that?”
“Give you a choice.”
“I’m listening.”
“What you did tonight, it was remarkable. It required a level of bravery unlike any I’ve ever seen. And if you would like to keep doing it, I can make that happen. I can make it happen in a much safer and more controlled way. I can provide the support and the tools you need to remove all the kinks, shall we say, in tonight’s operation, so that you can take some of the worst human monsters out of circulation for all time.”
“And what do you get out of it?”
“You would, in essence, of your own free will, become our test subject. But in that capacity, we would treat you with the utmost care and respect, provided you followed certain guidelines.”
“Such as?”
“Extensive medical testing after each use of the drug. Allowing yourself to be monitored as well. When you’re not pursuing a subject like Pemberton, your life would be your own. Altamira. Marty. Luke. The new resort that’s set to open soon. I imagine there will be employment opportunities there. For all
three of you. If you’re interested.”
Because you own the place now, she thinks.
“And what about Dylan? Will I be working with him?”
“Not directly, no.”
“But what’s the point? What will the testing be for?”
“The goals remain the same.”
“You’re gonna find a way to sell this drug? To make it work in everyone? That’s insane.”
“Of course not. The goal will be a stable, restrained, marketable version of Zypraxon that will do nothing more than inhibit those elements of the panic response that are counterproductive to survival mechanisms in populations at risk of being exposed to severe violence.” He seems comforted by this string of buzzwords and marketing speak; he smiles wistfully, like a man who’s just recounted a fond memory of his hometown. “The goal will be a drug that could have saved your mother’s life.”
“You’re gonna start marketing a drug that allows women to rip men in half?”
“Stable. Restrained. It won’t happen overnight. It will be years before we get there. But with you, we’re closer than we’ve ever been. And I imagine the breakthroughs along the way will be considerable. To say nothing of the women whose lives will be saved by your work before then. How many more masks do you think Pemberton would have made if you hadn’t stopped him tonight?”
“I don’t actually know what you’ve done with him, so he could still end up making more.”
“One thing at a time, Charley.”
“OK. And the other choice?” she asks.
“Walk away. And we all pretend the last week or so never happened. I might keep some tabs on you, but only to make sure you aren’t sharing too extensively about our time together. But your life will be your own, albeit . . . a little less exciting than if you had chosen to work with us.”
“You’d let me just walk away after everything you told me?”
“After everything you’ve done, for sure, Charley.” She can’t tell if he’s referring to her so-called bravery or the multiple hacks Bailey’s committed on her behalf.
“OK. And Dylan?”
“He would have to die.”
At first she thinks his gentle, conciliatory smile is a sign he’s kidding, but as it fades and his eye contact doesn’t waver, she realizes he’s absolutely serious. For the next few seconds there’s only the muffled chop of the rotary blades overhead as the helicopter swings back to the west.
“You’re serious?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“So if I refuse to work with you, you’ll let me go back to my life, but you’re gonna . . . what? Hunt Dylan down and shoot him?”
“It’ll be more elegant than that, but that’s the basic idea, yes.”
Everything else the man has said to her tonight has felt clinical, rehearsed down to the last word, but there’s something in his expression now that seems raw and electric. She wonders if she had a similar look in her eyes when she snapped Pemberton’s wrist. He’s out for some kind of revenge, and he’s using her to do it.
“Why?” she asks.
“Why? He gave you a drug without your knowledge that might have caused you to tear yourself apart.”
“You don’t care about me. You don’t even know me.”
“For two years, he developed that drug with my complete support. That makes me responsible for you.”
“Right, but if you were so outraged by what he’d done, why not kill him the minute he told you?”
“I wanted to see if he was telling the truth.”
“You didn’t need him alive to see that. You could have just followed me like you did.”
He nods. He’s surveying her. Maybe if she wasn’t capable of bashing his head in, he’d have her killed for speaking this kind of truth to him. Maybe he’s just that kind of guy. Maybe that’s how he got his own helicopter.
“Forgive me, Charley, for the speech I’m about to make. And let me qualify it by saying I really do believe that all people are created equal, even if a fair amount of them go to shit not long after they’re created. But you need to know this.
“I’m not like you. I’m not like anyone you know, and I’m not like anyone you will ever meet. I sit at the head of a company that will make more money in the next five minutes than most people would be able to earn in ten lifetimes. The products that I deliver to the world save thousands of lives every minute, all over the planet. And the development and manufacture of those products, products that people now demand at the drop of a hat for almost nothing, comes at a cost those same people cannot bring themselves to examine. It’s my job to deliver those products while concealing that cost at all times. That’s my duty. That’s what I go to bed with every night.
“Now, I realize we live in the age of the social justice warrior who thinks he can ferret out all the corruption in the world just by doing some Google searches, but the fact of the matter is this. While everyone points the finger at Wall Street and Goldman Sachs and the like, it’s companies like mine that actually shape the world, and we have this responsibility because people gave it to us. Because they expect to be relieved of every ache and pain and bad mood, as if being alive itself is a pathological condition, and someone, somewhere is responsible for fixing it. And we meet that need. We meet that need in the hopes that we can someday wrest enough financial gain from this neurotic hunger that we end up developing a cure for cancer. Or a drug that stops strokes once and for all. Or a drug that allows people at risk of violence or abuse to defend themselves in a competent, focused, and effective manner. Something that’s truly important, not just easily marketable.
“That’s my job, in a nutshell. That’s my responsibility, and it was my father’s before he left it to me. And if you decide to wash your hands of all of this, then Project Bluebird is dead forever. I’ve got no more to give to it. And that’s fine. But that also means Dylan Cody or Dylan Thorpe or Noah Turlington or whatever he chooses to call himself tomorrow has no more to give me or my company except dangerous and unacceptable risks. And I can’t have that. I can’t have that at all.”
The pictures still stare up at her from the spread of pages on her lap: the boy with the murdered mother and the mad scientist he became.
“Why tell me?” she asks. “Why make me responsible for his life? Why not just deal with Dylan the way you want to?”
“If you do decide to work with us, I don’t want to jeopardize our new relationship. For all I know, you might have developed a real attachment to him.”
“You certainly seem to have one.”
“I’ll show you some footage of what happened to the test subjects in our labs. That way you’ll appreciate the magnitude of the danger he placed you in.”
“Or you could admit that you just want him dead, but you can’t bring yourself to do it unless you use me as an excuse.”
“I’d dismiss that as glib if you didn’t speak from experience. After all, you’re the one who used me and my surveillance and Zypraxon as an excuse to hunt down a serial killer who reminded you of the people who killed your mother.”
“I didn’t do it for revenge.”
“Coulda fooled me, Burning Girl.”
“I’m not interested in being part of your revenge, either.”
“That’s not what it is, but I can certainly understand why you’d see it that way.”
“What is it then?”
“Management.” He sucks in a deep breath. “That said, this isn’t a decision you need to make tonight, or the next night, or the night after that. Take your time. You’ve been through a great deal these past few days. But, Charlotte, right now I need your blood.”
Maybe this was his strategy, to sideline her so she’d offer up her arm without a struggle even though she’s currently capable of snapping his neck with one hand. It works. She gives them her left arm; the wounds from where she tore out Pemberton’s IVs are still fading on her right.
Mark, the spectacled former nurse, springs into action, opening the briefcas
e, revealing the vials in their foam slots. Only when he brings the syringe close to her flesh does she notice that his hands shake slightly and his nostrils flare with each breath, as if he were preparing to inject a growling tiger.
Once her blood starts to fill the vial, Cole knocks on the partition behind his head. The chopper banks again, and they start flying back toward the rivers and lakes of twinkling lights beyond the dark mountains.
By the time they start to descend, Mark Hetherington has filled five vials.
When he removes the last one, she glances out the window. They’re close to the Pala Casino Resort; it rises like a gatehouse to the network of mountain valleys they just took off from. Their landing spot is the empty parking lot of an unfinished shopping mall.
Approaching on the nearest service road now are two large black SUVs she recognizes from outside the vineyard’s gate, and Luke’s Jeep in between them. As the three cars pull in to the lot, she’s surprised to see Luke and Marty emerge from the back seat of the first SUV and not the Jeep. Apparently Luke’s vehicle has been commandeered by more of Cole’s windbreaker-clad Glock aficionados, like the guys now fanning out across the perimeter of their impromptu helipad.
The man driving Luke’s Jeep hops out, then disappears into the back seat of the SUV in front. Whatever’s about to happen, it’s going to be a quick transfer, and as the chopper’s runners come to rest on the asphalt, she realizes most of the men and the firepower are still up at Pemberton’s place.
But her people are all here: Luke, Marty, Brasher, Rucker, and the three guys who were supposed to be at the surveillance post. They don’t look traumatized, just shaken and confused—like students evacuated from a school after a phony bomb threat.
The Windbreakers, as she now thinks of them, are falling back and piling into the SUVs.
Ed Baker slides open the door to the passenger compartment, allowing in a blast of air as the blades roar by overhead. This time, she realizes, the helicopter won’t be shutting down.
“I’ll be in touch, Charlotte,” Cole says. “Not with quite this much fanfare, of course. But soon. I would offer you my hand but . . .”
She reaches out and grips the edge of the door, careful not to bend the metal. In her other hand, she holds the file.
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