“I think so. I mean, at the least he can put the collection on hold. Or move the kid. Or something. This is perfect, Elena. Just what I need to convince him to go whistleblower and get an investigation launched.”
A better smile lights her face.
I flip open my phone and bring up Flitstrom’s number. Before I tap it to call him, I stop, realizing that I can’t just take off and bring all this to him. Not while my mom is…
I close my phone.
“What’s wrong?” Elena asks.
“Could you do something for me? I mean, something more, because you’ve already done so much…”
She looks puzzled.
“Can you make sure that Dr. Brodsky doesn’t…” I can’t force myself to say experiment on my mother. “Can you just ask them to wait? Until I get back? I would ask her myself, but if I go in there, and she asks me to stay…” Time is short—for her and for this kid that Candy has scheduled to transfer out. “If I have to choose…” I’m fighting, hard, to keep my voice level. Elena has already seen me cry today. The last thing I want is a repeat of that.
“I understand.” She hands me the screen. “Everything you need for Flitstrom is on here. I’ll make sure Dr. Brodsky waits until you get back. And I’ll see if we can arrange to have Sophie smuggled out of the hospital. If nothing else, at least we can stop that from happening.”
She has that determined look, softened only by the deep brown of her eyes peering up into mine.
“You know what?” I say. “You’re not just a genius. You’re like a really short, kind-hearted drill sergeant.” I let out a low breath. “But I think I already knew the kind-hearted part.”
She drops her gaze to her hands, then tucks them both under her arms. The small blush on her cheeks makes me smile in spite of the heartache that’s tearing around inside me.
Then she looks up into my eyes again. “Just stop these guys, Joe.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
It’s late, nearly ten o’clock, and Flitstrom isn’t happy I’m calling him at home. I’ve got my full debt collector regalia on, and I keep my voice low as I stride through the dark streets toward the metro. I’m already on my way to meet him, even though he hasn’t agreed to it yet.
His voice exudes impatience over the phone. “Whatever problems you’re having with your psych officer, you can take it to internal affairs in the morning.”
“Sir, this really can’t wait. And by morning, my psych officer may have called internal affairs herself.” Which is highly unlikely, but sounds like a good excuse. It’s only been an hour or so since I tied Candy up in her apartment. I’m sure she’s already worked her way loose, and she might have even called the police, although I doubt it. She’ll probably just go about her business as usual—which unfortunately means transferring out a kid name Sophie in the morning.
An audible sigh drifts over the connection. “Can you tell me the problem over the phone? Maybe we can work it out.”
“This really has to be in person.”
“This is highly… irregular, Lirium.” The doubt in his voice makes my chest tight. Flitstrom is so by-the-book he even schedules out his coffee breaks to the minute. Which is precisely why I think he’s the guy to bring this to, if only I can get him to step out of his routine for two seconds.
“We don’t have to meet at the Department,” I say, hoping that will reassure him. I don’t want this meeting documented by security anyway. “How about that café around the corner, where you get your coffee. The Official Bean?”
“How do you know where I get my coffee?” Definitely suspicious. And I’d be disappointed if he wasn’t. He’s skeptical of anything out of the ordinary, which is why he’s the better man to be the whistleblower on this—not a near-washing-out debt collector who may or may not have recently been involved with the mob.
“You always have a cup from the café when I check in.”
There’s silence on the line for a moment, and I can just imagine Flitstrom’s little bean counter gears turning, calculating the odds that I’ve gone rogue debt collector on him. Or that I’m dragging him out for something less dangerous, but pointless. He’s all about efficiency and making the system run like a well-oiled machine. Which is why this monkey wrench I’m about to toss into the gears will upset him—and get him to call for an investigation.
I hope.
“All right,” he says, and the tightness in my chest eases. “I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes, waiting.” I close my phone and hurry to catch the metro as it slides into the station.
Flitstrom strides into the café with a nervous look over his shoulder, like he already regrets coming out at night to this part of town. Not that the neighborhood near the Department of Health and Life’s east-side division is exactly low-rent. At least, I’ve spent time in a lot worse places. But there are probably more junkies hit-seeking out at this time of night than what he normally sees in his nine-to-five.
I hold a hand up so he’ll see me. He slouches a little as he walks over and slides into the booth, sitting opposite me. He’s dressed in the same plain blue jacket and tie he wears to the office. I wonder if he has any other clothes.
I’ve already ordered coffee for both of us, hoping that will put him at ease. I slide it over to him, but he ignores it and glances at Elena’s screen lying between the cups.
“All right,” he says. “What’s this about?”
I take a breath and go right for it. “I have evidence my psych officer is illegally transferring out underaged kids.”
He stares at me, processing what I said. I know he’s heard every word, so I wait. The café is nearly empty, just a kid making out with his girlfriend in the corner and a bored staff member bouncing his head in time to music only he can hear. Neither pay any attention to us.
Flitstrom reaches for the coffee. The liquid on top forms shuddering rings with each shake of his hand. He sips, swallows, and blinks several times as he sets the cup down.
Finally, he says, “What evidence?”
I frown. He’s not questioning that it’s possible. There’s a very slim chance that I’ve read Flitstrom wrong all along. Maybe he’s not a straight arrow. Maybe he takes illegal hits on the side himself. There’s even the possibility that he’s involved in Candy’s scheme. I don’t think so, or I wouldn’t have come to him. But he should be outraged by this, not cold and calculating about the evidence. Then again, he is a bean counter.
“I have copies of government records that show how it’s set up.”
“You’ve been accessing government records?” he asks. “How?”
There’s no way I’m telling him about Elena. “I’m a debt collector. We have ways of convincing people to give us information.”
He narrows his eyes and notices the scrape marks on my cheek. “Unauthorized access to government records is illegal.”
I meet his stare. “So is transferring out kids.”
He rubs his forehead and squeezes his eyes shut. “Okay. You’re right.” He looks at me. “It just seems likely this is some kind of mistake. That can happen. Records can get corrupted or deleted or switched. Kids die and the parents want to blame someone, so they accuse the Department of transferring them out, when statistically it was going to happen sooner or later.”
“This isn’t a mistake, Flitstrom.” He looks startled by the anger in my voice, so I lower it and try to keep it even. “I’ve seen the kids. They’re little and they’re dying and their parents are forced to smuggle them out of the hospital before they get transferred out—”
“The parents are emotionally impacted by this. Maybe they mistakenly believe—”
“I’m emotionally impacted by this.” I stop and pull in a breath. “Look, this isn’t a file or a statistic, this is a flesh and blood kid. Are you the kind of man that can stand by and let that happen?”
His voice goes cold. “Contrary to what you might think, I’m not heartless—”
>
“I know, I know,” I say, backing off and hoping it’s true. “But some people are. People like Candy Kane Thornton are ruthless and all too happy to steal whatever’s left of these kids’ life energy in exchange for regular deposits into their debit accounts.”
Flitstrom frowns. “Okay, let’s say this is actually happening.”
“I have records to prove it.”
“Okay. Fine. But are you sure this is something your psych officer is involved in? Because the Agency carefully screens all its—”
“Don’t quote the rule book to me. It’s happening and Candy is involved. What I need to know is if you’re going to help me blow the whistle on this and make it stop. Because it’s still happening. There’s a little girl scheduled to be transferred out tomorrow. Are you going to stand by and let that happen or are you going to help me?”
“Okay! All right.” He holds up his hands, like he’s fending off my words with them. “Just calm down. Let me see what you’ve got.”
I don’t realize my fists are clenched under the table until he asks me to show him the screen, and I have to force myself to uncurl one of them. I slide the screen past his coffee and swipe open one of the records that Elena found. Or stole. Whatever.
I show him the ghost collection record. “Someone sets up this fake record. It’s a signal that tells Candy to send a collector to transfer out this terminally-ill kid.” I bring up the pediatric file. “It’s always the same collector: Moloch. After the kid is transferred out, the files are deleted from the system, and Candy gets a nice fat deposit in her account.” I quickly pull up those records as well. “There are dozens of hits that fit this pattern, all in the last twelve months.”
Flitstrom leans back, taking the screen with him. He’s fully engaged now, swiping and sifting through the data. I keep quiet, waiting, giving him time to do his analysis thing. He reads, swipes, reads some more. I take my coffee cup in my hand and sip, just to have something to do, while I nervously wait for him to come to some kind of conclusion.
Finally, he says, “So these records were obtained illegally?”
“They’re real, Flitstrom.”
“No, I know they’re real,” he says. “It looks like you’ve slashed into not only your psych officer’s records but files from my office and the Actuarial office at the Department of Health and Life as well.”
“I told you—”
He holds up a hand to cut me off and sets the screen down. “I really don’t want to know how you obtained these. It’s better if I don’t.”
“Okay.” I frown. “But it’s enough for you to start an investigation, right? Call internal affairs and go whistleblower. Or maybe the district attorney…”
He folds his hand on top of the table and stares at them a moment. My stomach clenches.
“I can’t do anything with illegal records, Lirium.”
“What do you mean? The evidence is right there! All you have to do is show them—”
“Show who?” Flitstrom asks. He’s sympathetic, I can tell. He wants to do something with this, but he’s acting as if his hands are somehow tied and he can’t do a thing. “Internal affairs will bury this. I’ll have to go to the Department Ombudsman at least, and even then… do you know who in the Agency is involved in this? Who knows that you’ve accessed these records? How pervasive is this? Is it just your psych officer or are there more?”
“I don’t know.” I swallow. “I… this is all I have. I was taking a chance, just coming to you with it. I figured you were too straight to be involved in something like this.”
He makes a disgusted face. “Of course I’m not involved. But the truth is that someone else clearly is. This goes beyond your psych officer. There could be several others involved. At the minimum, there’s someone with the ability to tamper with records and create that ghost file in the first place. And the payouts have to go somewhere. Did you think about that?”
I hadn’t, actually. “No,” I admit. “But we can prove that Candy’s involved. Isn’t that enough to get the Ombudsman or whoever to start a real investigation? I don’t know, like subpoenas and things. Get the real proof of everyone involved.”
“I’m not sure I can trust the Ombudsman with this. Not when we don’t know who all is involved.” I can see the weight of this on Flitstrom’s face now. He’s figuring the angles, and it’s not coming up good. “I’ll have to take this outside the Department. Which means we need evidence that will stand up in a court. Or at least be enough to get a warrant to subpoena government records, which is no small thing.” He rubs his face with both hands. “This isn’t going to be enough, Lirium. We need proof that the kids are actually being transferred out. And some way to tie that to the Agency.”
I like the “we” part of that sentence, but not the rest. “What kind of proof do you need?” Exasperation makes my voice squeak. I’m not sure I can wring anything more out of Candy, and the clock is ticking for Sophie and whoever else Candy has lined up to transfer out next.
Flitstrom’s lips pull into a tight line, then he leans forward. “You said there’s a kid that’s scheduled to be transferred out tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “And it would be really great if we can shut all this down before then.” I don’t mention that Elena’s already working on smuggling the kid out.
“No,” he says. “Don’t shut it down. Use it. If we can catch them in the act, Lirium, if we can get it on record, then we’ll have something I can take to the DA.”
“Catch them in the act?” The horror in my voice attracts the attention of the couple in the corner, who momentarily break their fevered clutchings to stare at us. I lower my voice and lean forward. “You mean let them transfer out the kid and somehow record it? Are you crazy?”
“You don’t have to let them go all the way through with it,” he whispers back. “We just need to get it on record, then stop them before they finish.”
“By we you mean me,” I say harshly. “And by finish you mean kill. Do you have any idea what you’re asking here?”
“I’m asking you to get me evidence that I can use to stop this.”
I put my hands over my face, wiping away the horror and trying to replace it with the kind of steely-eyed determination I’ve seen on Elena’s face so many times. If catching a debt collector palm-to-forehead in the act of killing a child is what I have to do, then that’s that. I have to do it. And somehow not let the kid die in the process, because I would never be able to forgive myself for that.
“Okay,” I say to Flitstrom, who’s watching me with the intensity of a hawk. “I’ll do it.”
Dr. Brodsky’s laboratory is as creepy as I remember. The mini operating room he has set up for my mom’s procedure isn’t as horrifying as the collection of wayward cybernetic limbs on the second floor, or the table of toes on the third, but the worm-like thing he’s holding in a glass container of blue fluid has a creep-factor of ten all by itself.
“What is it?” I ask, vaguely horrified and not sure I really want to know. But Dr. Brodsky is showing it to me for a reason. It’s about two feet of pink fleshy tube with tentacles at either end. It floats with the sloshing of the blue liquid, but the tentacles seem to move of their own volition, opening and closing like twenty-fingered hands.
“This is the human-based tissue connector I told you about, Lirium. It is the device that will, I fervently hope, bathe your mother’s heart in life energy and bring her to recovery.”
“Wait… you’re going to put that thing inside my mother?” I’m not in favor of any part of this procedure, especially since the most likely outcome is my mom’s death, but the idea of implanting that thing inside her turns my stomach. “Does she know about this?”
“I’ve explained the entire procedure to her,” he says, “just as I’m showing you now. It’s quite similar to my previous work with smaller mammals, and the procedure itself is very straight-forward. She is quite aware of the details, I assure you. Her willingness to volunteer for th
is human trial deserves the highest respect. I would do nothing less than inform her completely.”
“And she still wants to do it?” I ask, knowing the answer. A tiny hope lives deep inside me that she’ll change her mind before it’s too late. There’s another, even smaller, hope next to it that this device will actually save her, not kill her. I can’t let either of those wishes out of the dark recesses where I’ve stuffed them; when they both fail to come true, it will be just that much harder to endure.
“I’ve asked her again, twice,” Dr. Brodsky says. “Once before and once after I explained the procedure. Your mother is a brave and selfless person.”
I give him a bitter smile. He’s going to kill my mother with his experiment. I want to tell him to go to hell with his praise. But I let it simmer inside me and say, “Tell me how it works.”
He nods in a solemn way, and his bushy gray eyebrows draw together. “We’ll put your mother under sedation to implant the device. It will be done through a small incision for minimal invasiveness. One end of the device will be positioned over the heart; the other over one of her kidneys. The incision will be closed, with the device remaining in place.”
“You mean with the creature still inside her.” I swallow back my revulsion.
“It is not a—” He stops at my dark look. “Essentially, yes. Then we will slide your mother into the induction machine.” He gestures to the large metallic cylinder lying on its side and taking up half the improvised operating room. “I have modified a standard magnetic resonance imager to create precisely the directional field we need to activate the device’s life energy transfer capabilities.”
“So the creature—or device, whatever—won’t start to transfer until you turn on the field.”
“Precisely. I expect the operation to go smoothly. The difficulty will come when the field is activated. I have programmed an induction field tailored for your mother and tested it, but the test is imperfect. Without a source of life energy for it to transfer, the test does not accurately represent the conditions the device will encounter within your mother’s body. But it is all that I can do. When we turn on the machine, however, we should know rather instantly if it has achieved its purpose.”
The Debt Collector (Season 1) Page 32