Interference

by Brad Parks

  Beppe Valentino, glancing around suspiciously.

  The virus. Just sitting in those vials.

  Matt. His bloodstained T-shirt.

  His desperate, desperate countenance.

  Sleep was hopeless. Really, I think I was gathering my resolve.

  To do what I suddenly knew needed to be done.

  Maybe it wouldn’t work. Maybe it was reckless. By that point, I cared so little about my own well-being it didn’t even matter.

  Gingerly, so gingerly, I propped myself up, then slid my feet onto the floor and stood.

  Morgan didn’t move.

  So far, so good.

  I retraced my footsteps across the minefield to the door, then opened it into the landing at the top of the stairs. There was no light coming from Aimee’s room.

  Also good.

  I slid into my bedroom, walked to Matt’s nightstand, turned on his light, and pulled open the drawer.

  In a small bowl, Matt kept a spare set of keys, which I pocketed.

  There was also a pair of nail clippers. Thinking ahead, I took those too. Then I turned off the light.

  I was soon creeping back down the stairs, into the living room. I grabbed the keys to the Honda off the crash pad table on my way out the door. Before long, I was on my way.

  Back toward Wilder Hall.

  When I arrived, Steve Dahan was still in his safety and security car. He got out to greet me as I pulled up.

  I had been practicing this in my mind.

  “I left something inside earlier by mistake,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  I had a full backstory prepared—about how my purse had spilled, about how it contained vital medicine for Morgan that must have rolled out. And now I needed to retrieve it, lest Morgan suffer consequences.

  But Dahan just gave me a friendly grin and said “Okay” before hastily retreating to the warmth of his car.

  Once I was inside, my next hurdle was the Crime Scene Unit. I had no idea how I was going to finesse them.

  But it turned out I didn’t need to. I got to the lab and used Matt’s spare key to open the door. The lab was empty. The Crime Scene Unit was gone.

  The lights came on automatically as I entered. Wasting no time, I crossed the room to the refrigerator. I pulled open the door, keeping my fingers in my sleeve so I wouldn’t leave fingerprints, then selected one of the vials.

  It was filled with a clear liquid. I set it down, still stoppered, on the table.

  Then I pulled the nail clippers out of my pocket and snipped a piece of my inner forearm, emitting a quick high-pitched yelp as the blades sliced my skin.

  A dapple of blood pooled on my arm. I cleaned it away, exposing the tiny half-moon gash I had created. Without hesitation, I pulled the stopper off the small vial and tilted its lip toward the open wound.

  The liquid poured readily. Then I rubbed some into the cut, just to be sure.

  Sheena’s powers had started to show themselves after she had accidentally infected herself.

  My infection wasn’t going to be an accident. Was it reckless? Maybe. But Sheena had managed to have a fit and come out of it without any medical intervention whatsoever. So had Matt, assuming that the kidnappers didn’t administer any medicine after they carried him out of Wilder.

  I just hoped that by giving the virus direct access to my bloodstream, I would shorten the incubation period.

  And then?

  Two entangled brains had to be better than one.

  CHAPTER 53

  Emmett had managed to make it to the Tuck Inn and get his shoes off before collapsing on the bed.

  That’s where he still was a half hour later, watching the Celtics dismantle the Nets through closed eyelids, when he was startled out of sleep by a phone call.

  It was the dispatcher.

  “Hey, we got a hit on that Subaru Outback you were looking for,” she told him.

  “Where?”

  “Parked in the driveway of the owner’s house. Hanover Police were nearby on a domestic call. After they got that situation settled, one of them saw the Subaru and remembered the BOLO. Anyhow, I got him on the other line, waiting for further instructions. The BOLO said to call you first.”

  “Ask them to keep an eye on the Subaru and the house. If anyone comes out or tries to go anywhere, have them pulled aside for questioning. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  The dispatch finished the call with, “You got it.”

  Emmett laced up his shoes, then fought frigid blasts of wind on his way to his car. Before long, he was rolling past two Hanover squad cars idling on the street.

  He parked, then convened on the sidewalk just down from Beppe Valentino’s place with two officers. One had a beard and an erect carriage. He introduced himself as Officer Harry Burnham. The other, Officer Danny Alvord, had a bald, perfectly round head.

  Both seemed calm and capable and looked to be in their late twenties or early thirties.

  “That’s your BOLO vehicle,” Burnham said, nodding toward Valentino’s driveway. “We’ve been keeping an eye on the car and the house. There’s been no movement.”

  Emmett quickly apprised them of the situation: That Beppe Valentino was anything from a harmless professor to an armed hostage taker. And they had to be prepared for either.

  They agreed Emmett and Burnham would approach with caution from the front while Alvord would swing around back; and while no one would have weapons drawn, all would make sure the thumb releases on their holsters were open.

  Once they had given Alvord time to get in place, Emmett and Burnham moved up the front walkway. As they approached the door, a floodlight clicked on.

  Probably a motion sensor. But Emmett felt the unease of knowing anyone inside could now easily see him, and had him framed for an easy shot if they so desired.

  He stepped up his pace, took the five front steps in three strides, and rang the doorbell.

  A light turned on upstairs.

  Burnham, just behind and to the left, had his hands resting on his belt in a way that was somewhat less than casual.

  Finally, the door was opened by Beppe, wrapped in a bathrobe, his hair askew.

  “Hello, Detective,” he said. “What’s going on?”

  “Is Sheena here?”

  “No. Why would she be?”

  “She left Wilder with you, didn’t she?”

  “Well, yes. But I took her to Dick’s House.”

  “Dick’s House?” Emmett said.

  “Sorry. The student infirmary. I’m sorry, what’s this all about?”

  “Sheena’s not answering her phone. Neither were you.”

  “Oh, sorry. My battery was running low. It must have switched off. I—”

  “Why did you take Sheena to the infirmary?” Emmett asked.

  “She came into my office earlier, very upset. Hysterical, really. She was having . . . I guess you could call it a breakdown. She was concerned that these feelings of hers seemed to have gone away and that therefore anything that happened to Matt would be her fault. I tried to tell her that was ridiculous, but she was . . . beyond being reasoned with. She kept saying, ‘I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this. Why is this happening to me?’ We agreed it was best I take her to Dick’s House.”

  “So you just dropped her off and left her?” Emmett asked, unable to keep the accusatory tone out of his voice.

  “Well, I walked her in. She had calmed down some by then. She said she had texted a friend who would be meeting her there and that she would be fine. She was already getting checked in at the front desk and she insisted I didn’t need to wait for her. And, I have to admit, I was hungry and tired by that point. I thought she was in good hands. So, yes, I left.”

  “Did she say who the friend was?”

  “No. Just that it was a friend.”

  Emmett wondered if the friend was Scott Sugden, the Tuck student. Emmett was reasonably certain Dafashy really had gotten a phone call from Leonie. He wouldn’t lie about that
when he knew the police had already spoken with Leonie and might speak to her again. Therefore, it stood to reason Sheena probably did have a boyfriend—or at least a male friend.

  “And you haven’t seen or heard from Sheena since then?”

  “No. But I’m sure she’s just resting at Dick’s House,” Beppe said. “She’s probably not answering her phone because they either made her turn it off or she’s asleep. If you call over there, I bet they’ll connect you to her.”

  Emmett bid good night to Beppe, then dismissed Officers Burnham and Alvord, thanking them for their time.

  Fatigue was drawing Emmett back toward his bed at the Tuck Inn.

  But hard experience had taught him there was no such thing as being too sure of something. And he knew he would sleep a lot better if he could confirm that Sheena was, in fact, in the care of Dick’s House.

  He looked up the number for the Dartmouth student infirmary and dialed it.

  The woman who answered said she couldn’t give out information over the phone. HIPAA regulations didn’t apply to members of law enforcement who reasonably believed there may have been a threat to the health or safety of the patient involved. But the woman needed to confirm that Emmett was, in fact, a sworn officer and not just some random person claiming to be a state police detective.

  That meant he needed to present himself—and, more importantly, his badge—if he wanted to know anything.

  Emmett made the short trip across campus to Dick’s House, where the front desk was empty. After a short wait, a nurse in brightly patterned scrubs appeared, looking substantially fresher than he felt. He introduced himself.

  “Hello, Detective,” she said. “We spoke on the phone. Can I just see some ID, please?”

  Emmett pulled out his badge, which she inspected quickly.

  “Thank you,” she said, sitting down at the desk. “Now which patient were you inquiring about?”

  “Sheena Aiyagari,” Emmett said.

  From under the desk, the woman slid out a keyboard, typed in the name, then pursed her lips.

  “Can you spell the last name, please?” she asked.

  Emmett did.

  “That’s what I typed. And the first name is Sheena, s-h-e-e-n-a?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m sorry, we have no record of Sheena Aiyagari receiving treatment here this evening.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. According to this, Ms. Aiyagari was here a year ago February for treatment of . . . it looks like strep throat. She hasn’t been back since.”

  “Is it possible she’s back there somewhere but just hasn’t been entered into the computer?” Emmett asked. “Sheena is South Asian, Indian, whatever you’re supposed to call it. She’s about five feet tall. She has a nasty bruise under her eye.”

  “I haven’t seen anyone like that all night.”

  Emmett just stared at her, stumped. Had Beppe lied about walking Sheena in? Did he think Emmett wouldn’t check his story?

  Unless there was some kind of misunderstanding, and she really had been at Dick’s House.

  “Is it possible she was treated and released?” Emmett asked.

  “No. That would be in the computer.”

  The nurse was clearly trying hard to be helpful. It was the computer that wasn’t cooperating. One more reason Emmett preferred humans.

  “When did you start working this evening?” he asked.

  “My shift began at eight.”

  Which meant she wasn’t there during the time when Beppe claimed to have dropped off Sheena.

  “Who would have been here around seven or seven fifteen?”

  “Donna Wolford.”

  “Anyone who came in here would have had to go through Donna?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you have a number for her?”

  The woman hesitated, unsure whether she should hand over a colleague’s number to a detective. And Emmett had no way of forcing her, other than pleading. So, in an earnest voice, he said, “Please. Ms. Aiyagari may be in serious danger.”

  The nurse pursed her lips again, then said, “I’ll call her for you.”

  She pulled out her cell phone, tapped it a few times, then brought it to her ear. She held it there, waiting.

  Then, after what seemed like roughly five rings, she left a message: “Hey, Donna, it’s Sherry. I have a state police detective here who wants to talk to you. Would you mind giving him a call as soon as you get this? His name is Emmett Webster and his number is . . .”

  She looked up at Emmett expectantly. He recited his number and added, “Please tell her to call me as soon as she gets this.”

  The nurse repeated both the digits and the request, then thanked Donna and hung up.

  “I’m sorry,” the nurse said. “You’re just going to have to wait to hear from her.”

  Emmett glanced at his watch. It was now 10:03. It was entirely possible Donna Wolford, who got off her shift at eight, was now in bed, asleep.

  And so were any answers she might have been able to provide.

  CHAPTER 54

  It was 4:31 a.m. when Sean Plottner’s eyes opened for the first time. He had set no alarm. He hadn’t needed one in years.

  He might have lain there, tried to go back to sleep, but he knew there was no point. He could already feel his heart thumping in his chest, urging him awake.

  If you had told twenty-one-year-old Sean Plottner that forty-six-year-old Sean Plottner couldn’t sleep past five o’clock on a dare, the youngster probably would have gagged on the joint he was smoking.

  Now? It was simply his routine. While most of the East Coast was still asleep, he typically read three newspapers—Wall Street Journal, New York Times, Washington Post—then dissected what had been happening with the markets in Asia and Europe.

  So it wasn’t unusual for him to immediately turn to the iPad on his nightstand before he even turned on a light.

  What was unusual was that he didn’t tap on any of the aforementioned publications or stock-checking apps.

  He went to Facebook instead.

  What he found was more exciting than any development in the Nikkei index.

  Michael Dillman had finally answered:

  “First, you will take a picture of the cash and send it to me. Then I will tell you how we proceed. The exchange will take place at nine o’clock. I’m moving up the deadline.”

  Plottner stared at the message. A muscle in his jaw flexed involuntarily. There were few things he liked less than people changing the parameters of a deal that had already been made.

  He started typing:

  “That’s not possible. The money hasn’t arrived yet. I told you I’d get it first thing in the morning. That’s 9 a.m. I can’t get it here any faster.”

  He hit send. Almost immediately, the dots started dancing.

  Apparently, Michael Dillman was also an early riser.

  “You are a rich man. Make it happen. Picture by 8 a.m. Exchange at 9.”

  Ordinarily, Plottner would never let someone dictate terms like this.

  He would tolerate it this time.

  What choice did he have?

  “I’ll do my best,” he typed back.

  If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Michael Dillman was trying to scuttle the deal.

  He took a screenshot of the exchange, sent it to his lawyer. Then he pulled on a bathrobe, walked down the hall to Theresa’s door, and tapped on it.

  She answered fully dressed but for her shoes, having already showered and dried her hair. She had made it a habit to wake even earlier than her boss. It was the only way she could guarantee at least a modicum of time to herself before the requests began.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “Remember what you said about calling the bank first so that I could come in later and apply the pressure?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s later.”

  CHAPTER 55

  Emmett was making pancakes with Wanda
.

  It felt like a Sunday morning, but he wasn’t totally sure about that. He just knew he wasn’t in a hurry, and he smelled coffee, and that more than likely meant it was Sunday.

  Emmett flicked water on the griddle, heard the sizzle that told him it was hot enough for the batter.

  And wasn’t it the damnedest thing. You’d think if his subconscious was doing him the favor of giving him a dream that involved Wanda, it also would have had them doing something a little more exciting. Making love, maybe.

  But, no, they were making pancakes.

  Still, it was such a vivid dream. She was chiding him about mixing the dry ingredients a little more thoroughly before he poured in the wet stuff.

  And then the phone rang.

  Not the dream phone. The real phone. It took another ring before Emmett realized it.

  On the third ring, Emmett opened his eyes. He was at the Tuck Inn. He barely remembered driving back there the previous night. He looked down and discovered he had fallen asleep in his clothes again.

  He hadn’t even woken up in the middle of the night to pee. For a man in his midfifties, that was the sign of one hell of a hard night’s sleep.

  After the fourth ring, he glanced at the clock—6:06 a.m.—then located his phone on the nightstand and answered it.

  “Webster here,” he said groggily, propping himself up on an elbow.

  “Detective Webster, this is Donna Wolford from Dartmouth. I got a message to call you as soon as possible?”

  She spoke in a seen-it-all, done-it-all, matter-of-fact voice.

  “Yes, Ms. Wolford. Thank you. I’m told you were working the front desk at Dick’s House around seven last night?”

  “That’s right.”

  Emmett asked if she had seen a young woman who fit Sheena’s description.

  “Oh, yes. I was wondering if I might hear about her. She came in, probably about seven fifteen or so.”

  “Did she have anyone with her?”

  “Yes. It was an older gentleman. I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen his picture in Dartmouth Life.”