Fallen

by Ann Simko

"Yeah, I figured as much."

  "So, now what?"

  Montana offered Dakota his hand. "Well, for starters, you can finish taking a shower." He reached over and turned on the hot water. "And don't skimp on the soap, 'cause damn, you really reek."

  Dakota pulled his waterlogged shirt over his head and threw it at Montana. "And then?"

  Montana sighed and made a decision. "And then, we have a plane to catch."

  "Oh yeah? Where are we going?"

  "Washington, as in DC. You have a meeting arranged."

  The smile froze for a moment on Dakota's face and then disappeared altogether. "The General? Mary got me in?"

  Montana nodded. "Think you're up for it?"

  "I asked for it. Guess I'd better be. Don't let it define me, huh?"

  Montana shrugged. "You're not the only one talking to shrinks lately."

  "Not a bad line. Hey, Montana?"

  Montana looked at him.

  "Ever think of going into psychology?" Dakota rubbed his jaw where Montana's fist had made contact. "You have this warm, fuzzy thing going for you."

  Montana threw the wet shirt back him. "Lather, rinse, repeat."

  Montana closed the door behind him, leaned against it and closed his eyes. The thought of how close to the edge Dakota had been had him shaking. He knew his brother was far from over the trauma, but this was a first step. Maybe seeing The General as a human being, a simple man, instead of the embodiment of all-evil would be another one. As he walked out to the Jeep to retrieve a bag of clothes he always kept there, he truly hoped so.

  If Dakota chose to walk to the edge again, Montana wasn't at all certain he could stop him.

  Chapter 25

  Mary Stromm and an armed military escort met them at the airport. Montana had phoned her that they would be late because Dakota had insisted on stopping to get a haircut and shave. She was surprised, but delighted by the news.

  The transformation in Dakota was startling. Still painfully thin, pale and sporting an impressive, blossoming bruise, he was beginning to look like the Dakota in photos she'd seen. His walk had a little cockiness to it. If you failed to look at his eyes, you might miss the fact that the man was wounded.

  Mary hung back as he boarded and waited for Montana. "How in the world did you get him to do that?"

  Montana adjusted the Ray-Bans and cocked his head. "I beat him up."

  She raised her brows. "Hmmm, interesting technique."

  He gave her what might have passed as a grin and followed Dakota into the plane.

  Not even first class could alter the fact that the flight was long and tedious. Montana spent most of it reclined and inert, the dark glasses making it impossible to tell if he was actually asleep. Dakota stared out the window, silent despite Mary's attempts to draw him into conversation. He ate only because she threatened to cancel the visit if he didn't.

  A half-hour later, he was clutching his stomach. "I think I'm going to hurl."

  "Nothing but crackers in your system for two days. Serves you right. You puke, it's a deal-breaker. Or, if you prefer, I could have you admitted for IV nutrition. Your choice."

  "Oh, that's nice."

  "If that's what it takes to get you to eat, then so be it."

  Dakota graced her with a smile and shook his head. "I think I'm feeling better."

  "You have a nice smile, Dakota. You should do it more often."

  He lowered his eyes, still grinning, looking very much like a little boy. As he turned to the window once more, Mary was certain she heard him say, very quietly, "I'm working on it."

  For the first time, she held a small flame of hope in her heart for Dakota Thomas.

  * * * *

  They landed at a private airstrip just outside of Washington. A sleek white limo waited. As Dakota made his way down the steps, he noticed that theirs was the only plane on the tarmac. Apparently the airport had shut down just for their arrival. On closer inspection, he saw armed military personnel surrounding the landing strip. They stood like silent sentinels, weapons held across their chests, all dark glasses and attitudes.

  He hesitated when he saw them. It was all a little too familiar.

  "Relax." Montana came up behind him and spoke quietly. "They're on our side." He stepped around Dakota and disappeared inside the limo.

  "Yeah, how can you tell?" Dakota took a breath and followed. Reluctantly. It seemed safer than standing on the tarmac. "Okay, but if I see 'Bubba' on one name badge, I'm out of here."

  * * * *

  The hospital was located between the city and the suburbs, situated in around forty acres of pastureland surrounded by ten-foot-high gates and fencing topped with razor wire. The illusion of peace was deceiving. Montana knew that some of the most deviously brilliant, dangerous minds in existence were housed behind those gates.

  The security spoke for itself.

  The limo was stopped three times before even reaching the gates, searched thoroughly and their personal belongings were scrutinized. The real fun came once they actually entered the building. Thankfully, the strip search was waived only as a courtesy to Dr. Stromm. Apparently the director was a colleague of hers.

  Montana kept a close eye on Dakota. As they walked deeper into the complex, he become increasingly quiet, never a good sign. They finally were taken into a narrow windowless room and told to wait. The only furniture was an ancient green vinyl couch and one scarred plywood table. Dr. Stromm left to discuss the meeting with the director.

  The vinyl was cracked and worn through at the corners. It squeaked and groaned whenever Dakota moved. Montana elected to stand, which gave him the perfect vantage point from which to observe Dakota. He leaned against the far wall, his arms folded across his chest, legs crossed at the ankles. They had taken his Ray-Bans at the last checkpoint. In the silence of the small room, he stared at Dakota until he looked up.

  Before Dakota could say anything, he said, "Do you remember the coyotes?"

  Dakota seemed to search the room for some point of reference to the question. After a moment, understanding surfaced in his eyes.

  "When we were kids?"

  Montana nodded once. "I was fifteen, do you remember?"

  "That would have been the eighth or ninth time you took off, right?"

  "You found me before Cal did that time, remember?"

  Dakota grinned. "I always found you before Cal. Sometimes I just never let you know about it."

  Montana tried to suppress a smile.

  "Is there a point to this, or are you just reminiscing at a wildly inappropriate time?"

  Montana uncrossed his ankles and slid down to sit on the floor, his long legs stretched out in front. "You asked me why I kept taking off. All those times and you never asked me why until that one time."

  "You told me you were listening to the coyotes sing. That you needed to understand their song. You said if you figured it out, you might understand why dad never came back. I never quite understood what you meant."

  Montana leaned his head against the wall, the memory very clear for him. "Do you remember what you said to me?"

  Dakota's eyes canted downward as if lost in the memory. "I think I said that you already knew what the coyotes were telling you. That you'd understood their song long ago."

  Montana closed his eyes. "You told me that it didn't matter if I was there to hear them sing. The important thing was that I wanted to listen. The song would be the same either way.

  "I always remembered that." Montana opened his eyes and searched his brother's face for understanding. "You do not have to do this Dakota. Nothing that man has to say to you is of any consequence. You already know his song."

  After a long moment, Dakota nodded. "Maybe. But maybe it's not what he has to tell me. Maybe it's what he needs to hear from me."

  "You're sure about this?"

  Dakota shrugged. "As sure as I can be."

  "I don't like it."

  "Montana, what if I was wrong all those years ago? What if I do need to listen
to the song? All I know for sure is that I need to do this."

  "Then do it. I'll be here if you need me."

  "I know."

  Montana knew Dakota understood, and he was grateful for that simple fact.

  Thirty minutes later a guard came to inform them that John McKinley was in the next room, waiting.

  Montana looked to Dakota. "You good?"

  Dakota nodded.

  The guard gave him last-minute instructions. "No contact whatsoever. Mr. McKinley will be on one side of the table, you on the other. He will be shackled to the floor and two armed guards will be in the room with you at all times. You have ten minutes."

  Dr. Stromm came into the room. "I still don't think it's a good idea to go in there alone, Dakota."

  He simply looked at her. He'd already said everything necessary.

  The guard led him down the hall and into the next room. The sight of armed soldiers did little to ease his feeling of dread as he walked over the threshold. This was possibly the last thing he wanted to do, the last person he ever wanted to come face to face with. It was also the one thing he knew he had to do if he ever wanted to live a semblance of a normal life once more.

  The room was small, with two doorways: the one he had just entered and one on the opposite wall. A wooden table occupied the center of the room, and behind it in a metal chair sat the General. He wore a light blue jumpsuit with a prison ID number stenciled in black over the left breast pocket. His hands were cuffed to a thick leather strap buckled around his waist, and his ankles were shackled to a heavy metal ring protruding from the concrete floor.

  Dakota's first impression was that the General looked smaller than he remembered. In his dreams the man always towered over him. His pressed uniform, with its broad shoulders and shiny brass buttons demanding both fear and obedience, continued to dominate his nightmares.

  But in a wrinkled blue jumpsuit, the General appeared shrunken and powerless. Maybe that was what gave Dakota the courage to take the empty chair and sit down. Or maybe it was the slippers—not black dress shoes. Just the memory of those shoes and the sound they'd made, clicking on the concrete of his cell made Dakota sweat, even now.

  "Dr. Thomas." The General inclined his head. "Forgive me for not standing, but..." He jangled his chains and smiled. "I am a bit incapacitated."

  A five-hour plane ride, almost two hours of security checks, and suddenly Dakota had no idea what to say. He simply stared, while time ticked by.

  "You look a bit thin, Doctor; I do hope you have not been ill." When Dakota didn't respond, the General continued. "And I'm told you're no longer practicing medicine."

  He leaned forward, his eyes mocking. "Lost the desire to heal?"

  Dakota turned away, unable to match the General's stare, but he could still feel those eyes boring into him, digging for control. He shifted in his chair and wondered if maybe Montana and Mary Stromm might have been right. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

  "Tell me Doctor, how are sleeping at night? Care to share your dreams, your nightmares? The things that claw around at the back of your brain, the demons that keep you chained, afraid of the dark?"

  "You're the one in chains, not me." His words held little conviction.

  The General relaxed back in his chair. "So I am...so I am. Somehow, though, I think the ones that hold you captive are far heavier than mine."

  Dakota's mind froze. This was not what he expected. He simply sat and stared, afraid to move, afraid to speak. The General beamed that fatherly smile and Dakota felt sweat trickle down his back.

  "Well, let's not waste this precious time my keepers have generously allowed us. Another topic perhaps? Perhaps some news from the world of medicine? They don't allow me to read the paper but I have seen the news. I hear that there is a threat of avian influenza spreading into the United States. Bird flu, I think the media has dubbed it. Very lethal, very contagious. What a shame. So many innocents will probably die."

  The memory of his ordeal hit hard. He couldn't breathe, and for a moment he thought he might throw up. He took a deep breath and absently rubbed the scar along his forearm.

  The General seemed to understand his discomfort perfectly. "That would be a shame, don't you agree? All that pain and suffering. We both know how needless it all is. You have so much to share Doctor. If only you had the courage to do what you know is right."

  "You bastard," Dakota whispered. Sweat ran cold down his spine. The General just nodded knowingly. He leaned in so only Dakota could hear him. The guards stepped closer with their weapons, but the General ignored them.

  "I know what haunts you, boy," he whispered. "That if you give in and do what your conscience tells you is right, your life will never be your own again. But if you protect yourself and turn your back, millions will die." He sat back in his chair. "And it's within your power to save them all."

  The room seemed to close in on Dakota. He was dizzy.

  "For as long as you live, I will own you, Dakota Thomas. That's what keeps you from sleeping at night."

  Dakota suddenly realized he had a choice. He could let the General's words rule him, let the General own him, or he could take control and reclaim his life. The simplicity of the decision made him laugh.

  "You don't own me. You are nothing. You take what was never yours to have. You hide in the dark because you have to. You destroy because you can, you delusional, sick, son of a bitch.

  "There is nothing good about you, no power other than what you take. You do not own me."

  "Two minutes, sir," one of the guards said. Dakota gave him a nod and returned his attention to the General, who now seemed more pitiful than frightful.

  "I'm the one who gets to walk out of here, John," he said, using the man's true name. "We shut you down."

  "Did you?" The General laughed softly. "The Program isn't just me or the men you killed. Name a major pharmaceutical company, Doctor. The Program is funded by at least three of them. What about research facilities? All those public donations to help find cures for cancer, diabetes, AIDS. The Program has made them all possible. Every time you prescribe an antibiotic for one of your patients, will you ever be sure I wasn't the one responsible for it?

  "How many men's lives were sacrificed for that new baby's vaccine? You'll never know. Just like you'll never know how many more Riccos, how many more Dakotas are out there at this very moment, going through unimaginable hell, just to make your life a little bit more pleasant."

  The General's eye started to twitch and his face took on a manic look. "I'm a fucking hero to every cancer patient who prays that a cure will be found before they die, to every twenty-year-old victim of arthritis, to every human being who might die of Avian Influenza."

  He locked eyes with Dakota. "I am God, Dakota Thomas, minus the moral fiber."

  "You are nothing. A monster with delusions of grandeur."

  "I gave you a gift, and you are too scared to do anything with it. Now, you tell me, who's the real monster here?"

  Dakota's breath caught. The room seemed to close in on him. He couldn't stop staring at the man across the table.

  "We could have saved millions of lives together, Doctor Thomas," The General shook his head sadly. "All that will be wasted now. I hope you can live with yourself. I hope you find peace in the dark."

  "Get him out of here," Dakota told the guards.

  The General held Dakota's gaze as the guards unlocked his chains from the floor and pulled him to his feet. They ushered him out in a slow, shuffling gait. At the door he turned to look at Dakota over his shoulder. "Sweet dreams, Doctor."

  He laughed as the guards pulled him from the room.

  Dakota sat perfectly still, with the General's words ringing in his ears. He had to sit because he wasn't entirely sure he could stand.

  He'd been right about a lot of things, most of which were beyond Dakota's control, and he had to accept that. But there was one thing the General was wrong about. No one owned Dakota, not unless he allowed it.
/>   Dakota was tired of letting the General rule his life.

  He stood, and was pleased to find his legs steady beneath him. He walked out the door he'd entered ten minutes earlier feeling lighter, even a little at peace with the monsters that sought to shred his soul. He knew for the first time in weeks what he had to do, but hadn't had the strength or courage to do, until now. For that, and only that, he owed the General.

  He had turned his back on everything the General represented, but he could not turn his back on what the man had done to him. Not anymore.

  As he entered the waiting room, Dr. Stromm stood, concerned etched on her face. "How'd it go?" Worry tightened her voice.

  Dakota nodded to Montana, and hoped he understood. He was back now. He was going to be okay.

  He said to Dr. Stromm, without hesitation, remorse or regret, "I was infected with a variant of avian influenza while being held by the General. They infused me with a serum made from Ricco's blood and it halted the progression of the disease."

  He paused for a moment, his gaze moving from Mary, to Montana and back again, before continuing. "I carry within me the cure for a possible pandemic."

  With that single declaration, Dakota Thomas reclaimed his life and gave up any chance of normalcy he might ever have had.

  The monsters backed down.

  Chapter 26

  Maggie Riley checked the cameras in Michael Ricco's apartment. A necessary evil. That was how she convinced herself of the validity of her job. What had been done to him had created an irreplaceable freak of nature, one who could possibly save untold thousands of lives.

  She still had a problem thinking of him as over one hundred years old. A real problem.

  She kept telling herself that he'd volunteered to be a human guinea pig and they did not keep him in a cell and lock him away from the rest of the world. Michael Ricco had a beautiful apartment and everything he could ever want, except maybe his freedom.

  What would he do with freedom anyway? It was only an illusion. He had to be happier here, or so she tried to convince herself. She had no problem with the job, if she just kept that in mind. But then she would look at his face, look into his eyes, and her resolve melted. Seen through her monitors, he looked like a lost little boy, when he didn't look completely empty.