Chasing the Wind

by Norma Beishir

  “Why do you care?” Dante’s voice was cold. “You created the freaks. Why would you want to be exposed?”

  I inhaled sharply. “How bad?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The accelerated maturation. How severe is it?”

  “Their chronological ages, as you know, are seven to eight,” Dante said. “Their physical age is now ten to twelve. At the current rate of development, they will reach full maturity within nine months.”

  “They’re still alive,” I concluded from Dante’s use of the present tense.

  “For now.”

  “They’re children, Nicholas!” I protested the unspoken threat. “You can’t just dispose of them as if they were yesterday’s rubbish!”

  Dante’s smile was malevolent. “Becoming a father has changed you, Andrew,” he observed. “It’s made you soft. Almost human, I think.”

  “My child is dead,” I said. “Because of your hired goons, we couldn’t get my wife the proper medical care. There were complications. She died in childbirth.”

  Dante leaned over me so that our faces were only inches apart. “I don’t believe you. We will find them, Andrew. With or without your cooperation, we will find them.”

  “You have me. Is that no longer enough?” I asked, frustrated.

  “No, as a matter of fact it’s not.”

  77

  Caitlin

  “This is Sarah Stewart,” the woman's voice on the phone identified herself. “I'm Andrew's sister. I know my brother met with you and that you were supposed to meet again. I have something I believe he gave me for safekeeping. Something I know he would want me to turn over to you…”

  “My brother sent this to me by courier just before he disappeared,” Sarah Stewart said as she took the flash drive from her bag. She passed it across the desk to Jack, who immediately inserted it into the USB port on his laptop.

  “Why have you come to us, Ms. Stewart—Ms. Rhys-Williams—” I asked.

  “It’s Stewart now,” Sarah said.

  “Why not take it to Scotland Yard?” I asked.

  “You met with my brother, did you not?” Sarah asked.

  “Yes,” I said, nodding slowly. “He had security concerns.”

  Sarah nodded. “He told me in the event of his death, I should get this to you.” She gave me the letter that had accompanied the drive.

  I raised an eyebrow. “You believe he’s dead?”

  “I believe something has happened to him,” she admitted. “He's dealing with a dangerous man.”

  “And you know this—how?”

  “They killed my father.” she said with certainty. “They manipulated him and used him. When he was no longer of use to them, they disposed of him. The man behind all of this is, I am fairly certain, Nicholas Dante.”

  Jack and I exchanged looks. “Dante,” I repeated.

  “Then you know of him.”

  “His name has come up in the course of our investigation,” I admitted.

  Jack opened the files on the flash drive. “Bingo.”

  I turned to look at him. “What is it?”

  “Joseph Sadowski’s missing files.”

  78

  Lynne

  Something was very wrong.

  I could feel it. The vague sense of foreboding wasn’t due to the fact that he had not called again. I knew that might not be possible. No, what I was feeling came from another place, deep within my soul.

  You knew him before either of you came into this world. Your souls were entwined before time began.

  Rafaela’s words echoed through my thoughts now. Is it possible? I wondered.

  It would have been so easy to accept those words a year ago, when my faith had not been so severely tested.

  You chose him to be your messenger, I thought angrily. Will You let it end like this? You told me not to be afraid to love him—but You didn’t tell me I’d lose him so soon. Why?

  I had to know if he was all right. I went to the drawer and got the last of the prepaid phones we’d bought when we arrived in New Zealand, hoping I could get a signal in this remote area. Connor had told me they couln’t be traced,. If he’d been arrested, would I have any way of knowing? If he didn’t answer his phone, would anyone answer? If not, I’d know nothing, no more than I did now.

  I punched in his satellite number. It rang…and rang…and rang…and rang. Then it stopped ringing, and a man’s voice came on the line. Not Connor’s.

  “Hello, Mrs. Mackenzie. I’ve been waiting for your call.”

  I dropped the phone.

  79

  Connor

  “That was your wife, Andrew.” Dante tossed my satellite phone aside and leaned back in his chair. “I’m sure she misses you. As soon as we trace that call, she’ll be able to join you.”

  “You’re mistaken. My wife is dead.”

  “She sounded very much alive just now,” Dante said.

  I didn’t respond. I maintained an emotionless expression, silently hoping Lynne had used one of the throwaway phones.

  If not, it was only a matter of time.

  80

  Lynne

  They’ve got him.

  I was frantic. I didn’t know what to do, who to call. Darcy? No…Darcy had never understood. I couldn’t tell him the truth. He’d never believe it.

  Trust no one.

  Connor wanted me to stay here, with the baby. He wanted to know we would be safe. Yes, I promised him I wouldn't leave…but now I wanted to go to London, to do whatever I could to help my husband.

  The authorities? Interpol? Scotland Yard? The FBI? Connor said Edward had told him all of those agencies had been infiltrated. Trust no one.

  I scanned all the news stories on the internet. Nothing, I thought anxiously. If he were dead, wouldn’t someone have found the body?

  No. They wanted his DNA. They would keep his body. Dear God, they would cut him up like a chunk of meat.

  I wished Tim were here. I could trust him. I could call him for anything and he would have been there for me. If only I could call him.

  God help me. Tell me what to do…

  81

  Caitlin

  Sarah Stewart was determined to find her brother.

  She convinced Jack and me to go with her to the hotel where he'd been staying. We went to the front desk. “I’d like to speak with the manager, please,” she told the front desk clerk.

  He nodded. “One moment, miss.”

  The manager appeared almost immediately. “Aaron Rudd. May I be of assistance?” he asked.

  “I’m Sarah Stewart,” she introduced herself.

  His eyes lit with recognition. “Of course, Ms. Stewart,” he said. “I see you on the telly often.”

  “My brother was staying at this hotel.” She showed him a photograph of Connor. “He was most likely not using his real name, as he was in some legal difficulty. Perhaps you recognize him?”

  He studied the photo for a moment, then showed it to the clerk. “That’s Mr. Ryan, sir,” the clerk said. “He’s in 407. He hasn’t collected his messages in days, however.”

  Rudd pulled up his file on the computer, then turned back to us. “His things are still in his room. He paid by credit card and thus far he has not checked out, so…”

  “Could I have the key, please?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “My brother is missing, Mr. Rudd,” Sarah said. “There may be something in his room to help me in finding him. Would you have him meet with a bad end to protect your foolish rules?”

  “No,” he stammered, “but—”

  She extended her hand. “The key, Mr. Rudd.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Shall I do a story on this for my network?” she threatened.

  He hesitated. “I’ll take you up.”

  “I would appreciate that.”

  We didn’t speak in the elevator. He unlocked the door and let us in, then looked on like a silent sentinel while Sarah searched everything. No
thing.

  “Thank you,” she told Mr. Rudd as we walked out.

  Once we were in the elevator again, she took out her mobile phone and called what I presume was a former colleague, switching to speaker mode. “Sidney—are you still the best hacker in the United Kingdom?” she asked, turning on the charm.

  “I ain’t in prison, am I?” asked the male voice on the other end of the line.

  “Might I hire you?”

  “Is it illegal?”

  “Possibly, but you could help me save a man’s life,” she told him.

  “Count me in.”

  She ended the call and turned to Jack and me. “If Sidney can't hack the files, nobody can.”

  “Babe, this is the like trying to break into the system at MI-6,” Sidney told Sarah an hour later.

  “You have nothing for us?” she asked, frustrated. “Time could be running out for Andrew.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Keep trying,” she instructed him.

  “You're going back to the US?” Sarah asked incredulously. “But my brother is still out there somewhere!”

  I tried to be understanding, but the likelihood of finding Andrew Stewart alive grew less likely every day. “Your brother is most likely dead, Ms. Stewart,” I told her. “It's been weeks, and there's no trace of him. This isn't even our jurisdiction. We've been ordered to return home.”

  “I'm not giving up,” she said stubbornly. “Somehow, I will find him.”

  82

  Connor

  I felt like a caged animal.

  I knew where I was. I was at the GenTech research facility outside London. I’d been involved in its design. I knew it was state-of-the-art, an impregnable fortress. There were seven stories, three of which were underground. Security was tight. The security fence was concealed by a high hedge, and armed guards were posted at the gates and patrolled the premises continually. There was no way I would be able to escape.

  I knew I was being held prisoner on the lowest level. My twelve-by-fifteen room was much like a jail cell, windowless with drab gray concrete block walls, and only the barest minimum of furnishings. I had a bed, a table, and a tiny bathroom. The door was locked from the outside, with an opening large enough to accommodate meal trays.

  “I see you’ve settled in.”

  I turned as Dante entered the cell. I lunged at my jailer, but was immediately shoved away from the door by a man I recognized: the giant Lynne and I had encountered in Hong Kong. I fell backward, hitting the bureau, then slumping to the floor.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and kill me, Nicholas?” I asked, scrambling to my feet. “Get it over with.”

  “In time, I might,” Dante said calmly, “but not until I’m convinced you are of no further use to us.”

  I dropped onto the bed. “You don’t trust me. Why would that change?”

  “If we keep you—detained—long enough, we will break you,” Dante reasoned. “Then we may be able to make use of your considerable assets. If not, at least your DNA will be of value to us.”

  I looked at him. “You’re planning to clone me?”

  Dante’s smile was cold. “We already have.”

  83

  Lynne

  It was September, almost spring in New Zealand. I took Kiwi for long walks, talking to him, telling him about his father. He was three months old now, and I couldn’t look at him without thinking of Connor. Our son was a constant reminder of what I’d lost. I wondered what I would do if Connor never returned.

  The answer was simple: I couldn’t accept that possibility.

  That was when I decided to keep a journal. I would videotape Kiwi’s first steps, his first words. I’d write down my thoughts and memories. I’d document everything so that when Connor came back to us—and I had to believe he would—he would not have missed a moment of his son’s life.

  When he comes home. Not if. When.

  He’s definitely his father’s son, Connor, I wrote. He looks exactly like you. I look into his tiny face and I see you. It breaks my heart. If I didn’t have Kiwi, I might crawl into bed and never get up.

  He’s saying words already. Six months old and he’s talking! His first word was “Daddy.” It made me cry. He needs you. I need you. Please come home to us….

  Connor, where are you? Are you still alive somewhere?

  It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining. Not a cloud in the sky. I wondered if I’d ever get used to the difference in seasons in the southern hemisphere.

  You should be here with us, I thought angrily. You should be celebrating your son’s first Christmas with him.

  Why did you have to do this?

  84

  Connor

  I was not allowed to see a TV or listen to a radio. I was not given any newspapers, magazines or books, and I had no computer. I had only my own thoughts with which to occupy myself for hours on end. I knew I’d been there at least four months.

  My moods fluctuated wildly. I went from anger to depression to mania to despair in the course of a day. I wanted to kill. I wanted to die. And I wanted to live, to return to my family.

  But I knew there was little chance of that happening. It would take something in which I did not believe. It would take a miracle.

  I raged at God. “I’m your prophet, am I? What good am I to you here?” I demanded. “If I were your prophet, you would not allow me to be imprisoned this way. How could I possibly be of use to you here?”

  And the seizures began. Without my meds, I had no idea what to expect. You have no power on your own, my child. This is a battle you cannot win alone. If you are to survive, you must accept this truth and surrender yourself to your Father….

  I was sitting on the bed when Dante entered the cell, the door locking behind him. I didn’t look up. I sat there, elbows resting on my thighs, my head in my hands, staring down at the floor. Ignoring him. The bloody bastard.

  “Where are the children, Nicholas?” I asked after a long, deliberate silence. “Where are you keeping them?”

  Dante took a seat at the table. “They’re here, of course,” he said.

  I looked up. “Here? You’re holding them here?” I asked.

  “Where else would I take them?”

  “They’re children, Nicholas,” I said.

  “Not for long,” Dante said. “Your growth hormone formula is out of control, Andrew. They're maturing far too quickly.”

  “Let them go. Send them back to their parents.” I pounded my fist on the mattress, wishing I could do the same to Dante’s face.

  “Do you really think their parents will want them if they see them?” Dante was amused by my demand. “They’ll reject them as soon as they realize their sweet little boys and girls are growing up far too fast. Is this what you wish for these children? Rejection?”

  “You don’t care about them,” I said.

  “You’re right. I don’t.” Dante leaned toward me. “But I do care about your child.”

  “My child is dead.”

  “How long will you continue to lie to me?” Dante asked, seething beneath the surface.

  I refused to look at him. “My wife and son are dead,” I repeated.

  I heard someone say it was Christmas.

  It was just another day to me, but I remembered how important it was to Lynne. She probably had a tree. She probably hung stockings by the fireplace and had gifts for our son. I wish I could see them now. I wish I could hold them both….

  January…another month had passed. The only thing that kept me going was the thought of my wife and son, of finding a means of escape, of returning to them. I had no photographs of them—but their images in my mind were more detailed than any photograph could ever have been. Every day, I visualized myself with my family—playing with my son, making love with my wife.

  Kiwi took his first steps. He was a bit unsteady at first, but a brave lad. Two or three steps, and then he fell into his daddy’s arms.

  Lynne watched while I sang my baby to sleep
. Maybe we’ll start trying to make him a brother or sister soon.

  He’ll start school soon. I’ll take him to school and pick him up after. Maybe we’ll stop for ice cream. His mum’s been having cravings again.

  And then reality destroyed those beautiful images….

  I wished I were dead.

  I would have taken my own life if I’d had the means to do so. I was slowly losing my grip on my own sanity. Even the voices had deserted me. I’d never felt more alone.

  Not since they killed my mum, I thought.

  I thought about my wife and son, and that galvanized me. Nicholas is hell bent on finding them, I thought. If he does, he’ll kill Lynne and take our son. My Kiwi will not grow up the way I did.

  I have to get out of here before he locates them….

  85

  Lynne

  I watched Kiwi take his first steps through the video recorder and wished Connor were there to share the moment with me.

  Kiwi is nine months old. He took his first steps today, Connor. He’s your kid, all right. He wants to run before he’s mastered walking. He’s impatient, doesn’t want to wait for anything.

  Kiwi was at my side, trying to climb into my lap. I offered him a bottle to placate him long enough for me to finish the journal entry. “No!” he responded angrily, slamming the bottle to the floor.