The Soul Collectors dm-4

by Chris Mooney

  The door clicked open behind her.

  'Good, you're awake,' a man said. He had a smoker's voice, deep and raspy, and a slight European accent — Eastern Europe. Russian, maybe.

  A squeak of footsteps as moved to face her. He looked like an older version of the Irish actor Colin Farrell; he even had the same black hair. He was trim and tall, hovering close to six feet, and wore army fatigues, boots and a short-sleeved olive T-shirt that showed off his repulsively hairy forearms.

  A clipboard holding a thick stack of paper was tucked underneath his arm. He removed it and placed it on the desk. Stamped in bright gold on a corner of the top page was the logo for the US Army.

  He leaned back against the desk and crossed his arms over his chest. He methodically chewed his gum while staring down at her with a cold, flat glare, trying to intimidate her. That kind of ability came naturally; you either had it or you didn't. This guy didn't. And he didn't have a badge or ID indicating his name or rank or what he did here.

  'You keep staring at me like that,' she said, 'I'm likely to wet my pants in terror.'

  'You broke a man's finger. Your doctor's finger.'

  Darby said nothing.

  'And you attacked two federal officers.'

  Darby said nothing.

  'The first guy you hit is in the hospital,' he said. 'Shattered his nose, and his balls are going to be swollen for weeks.'

  Darby said nothing.

  Army Boy went back to chewing his gum, pausing, she guessed, to let the significance of his words sink in. His hair, while not excessively long, covered the tips of his ears. Not an army-regulation haircut. And he had two to three days' growth of beard, which was also against regulations.

  'The other guy's also in the hospital,' he said. 'That gut punch of yours? He fell and cracked his head against the wall. Serious stuff.'

  Darby said nothing, looking at the man's smooth biceps. No tattoos.

  'Was all that really necessary?' he asked.

  'All fights involve gravity and weapons.'

  'And that's supposed to mean what?'

  'When you fight, you don't do it half-assed. And you always assume the other person is armed, so you hit him to make sure he can't get up.'

  'Those guys you hit are federal agents,' he said.

  'Boston office?'

  He shook his head. 'Washington. That little stunt of yours cost you big time. You're looking at aggravated assault.'

  No, I'm not. Nobody's going to do anything.

  Another dramatic pause. More chewing. Darby wanted to hurry the charade along, have Army Boy get to the point. Instead, she kept quiet and waited.

  He stopped chewing. Here came the politician's smile.

  'I explained to these gentlemen that you're on a lot of pain meds due to your broken ribs. That you were feeling an overwhelming and irrational anxiety brought on by cabin fever, a normal reaction for someone trapped inside a quarantine chamber. I also told them you got your period, you know, mood swings, PMS, all that good stuff.'

  'Clever,' she said.

  'Thank you. In other words, I convinced them that you weren't in any kind of normal or rational state when you went all Rambo back there. Plus — and this is where you got lucky — I reminded your two victims that they didn't identify themselves as federal agents. If they had, you'd be in deep shit. You're welcome.'

  Darby said nothing.

  'Your blood work came back,' he said. 'You're in the clear.'

  'Good to know, since the two feds who rushed into my room weren't wearing any hazmat gear. What are they doing all the way here from Washington?'

  'They came to review a few things about your statement.'

  'The feds carrying tranquillizer guns now?'

  He shook his head. 'We are. They borrowed them. I'm Billy Fitzgerald, by the way.'

  'And what do you do here, Billy?'

  'I guess you could say I'm the second-in-command. When Glick isn't around, I run the show. More often than not I'm what you'd call a desk jockey. All I do is shuffle paper, like the ones attached to the clipboard.'

  'Can I see some ID?'

  'What for?'

  'Polite thing to do when you're interrogating someone.'

  Billy laughed. 'This isn't an interrogation.'

  'Good. So let me speak to Sergeant-Major Glick.'

  'He's unavailable.'

  'Then make him available.'

  He blew out a long stream of air through his mouth.

  'Dr McCormick, let me explain the lay of the land to you. You're a civilian now. No Boston PD badge — not that it would make a lick of difference. Badges and fancy Harvard degrees don't hold much with me.'

  He picked up the clipboard, removed the stack of paper and flipped through the pages. Then he held up three or four sheets.

  'These pages are real important,' he said. 'I'm going to tuck them in the back, save the best for last.'

  After he did, he stood and placed the clipboard on her lap.

  'I'm going to unbind the cuffs on your right arm,' he said. 'You promise to be a good girl and not try any of that kung fu shit with me?'

  She didn't answer.

  He undid the cuffs binding her right arm, watching her carefully, then he dropped a pen on her lap and returned to the desk.

  'Read and initial each page,' he said, pulling out a chair. 'Sign your name where stated, and after you've finished I'll have someone drive you home. I'd suggest sticking around your place. The feds will still want to talk to you.'

  'How goes the investigation up north?'

  He smiled. 'That's classified.'

  'Because the army is involved.'

  'Army, FBI, ATF. It's a joint effort.'

  'Have they found Mark Rizzo?'

  'Couldn't tell you.'

  'Then maybe you can tell me the army's interest in a private biomedical facility?'

  'Look, we can keep going like this, you asking me questions I can't answer, and entertaining me with your snappy comebacks. Either way, I'm here until ten. Or you can sign the forms and you'll be on your way.'

  Darby stared at the clipboard, thinking back to the day when the Boston FBI office sent two Irish boys to get her statement. They proclaimed ignorance about what was going on up north, so she gave them a vague rehash of what had happened that night and told them that if they wanted to know the particulars, they had better come back with someone who could answer her questions. The same pair returned the following day with no answers for her and took another shot. She ignored them until they finally gave up and left, frustrated.

  Now her new friend Billy Fitzgerald had said the feds sent two bigwigs from Washington — the two bozos who had rushed into her quarantine room sans hazmat gear. She had assaulted two federal officers, put both men in the hospital, and instead of being cuffed and hauled away, Army Boy was telling her all she had to do was sign these forms and she would be free to go, no charges filed and no more questions.

  Interesting.

  Darby shifted in her chair, the other strap digging into her arm.

  'What am I signing?'

  'Medical release forms and some other things,' he said. 'Go on and give it a read. You're going to love it. It's a real page-turner.'

  21

  Darby flipped through the stack of sheets with her free hand. Fifty-two pages packed with fine print. She started to read.

  The front part, the first fourteen pages, consisted of forms releasing the BU Biomedical lab from any medical liability. After that came page after page of confidentiality agreements that spelled out, in excruciating detail, all the legal ramifications: ten years in prison along with a multitude of fines that, if they were ever enforced, would successfully bankrupt her — if she should ever feel oh so inclined to share any information about what she had seen or heard here during her treatment.

  The bulk of the pages, though, concerned the events of that night in New Hampshire. Lots of fine print crammed with that mind-numbing legalese that made her head spin. She kept seeing
the phrase 'the USA Patriot Act' in almost every line. The Patriot Act, a law enacted by former president George W. Bush the month after 9/11, gave law enforcement agencies the right to search anyone's telephone, email, financial and medical records — any record, for that matter — without a court order.

  She looked up and said, 'A little extreme, don't you think?'

  'When it comes to matters of domestic terrorism and national security, you bet we're extreme.'

  Especially when you're trying to hide something. Darby didn't need to voice this; it hung in the air between them. She looked at the man's cold gaze and wondered what, exactly, he was so afraid she was going to find.

  'I need my lawyer to review this before I sign,' she said. 'There's a lot of legal language in here I don't understand.'

  'Really? I think it's pretty straightforward.'

  'I'd still like my lawyer to look at it.'

  'Sure, we can do that. Might take, oh, a week or two before our guys can get to it. You know how busy lawyers are. While they're working it out, you're going to have to stay here.' He grinned. 'Liability issues.'

  'Do I get copies after I sign?'

  'We'll forward them to you after we get the appropriate signatures.'

  'From whom? I don't see any names listed here except mine.'

  'Make sure you read pages fifteen through twenty real carefully, as they spell out in great detail what will happen if we catch you poking that pretty little nose of yours into this matter. In simple terms, we'll have you arrested. That wouldn't go over too well with the Boston brass, given your rather, ah, tenuous position with them over that matter involving the police commissioner. You wouldn't want to deep-six any remaining chances you might have for reinstatement — or any future employment opportunities, say, in another state.'

  Billy Fitzgerald's eyes were dancing, all bright and confident. 'In other words, the US Army owns that pretty little ass of yours.'

  Darby felt her face flush with heat; her mouth was dry, tongue thick with thirst. She swallowed.

  'You all right, hon? Want some water? A soda?'

  She didn't want anything to drink. What she wanted right now was to get out of the wheelchair, lock the door and pound his face until his teeth turned to dust.

  She started undoing the strap binding her left wrist.

  Army Boy reached for his belt and came back with a tranquillizer gun. He put it on the table, pointing the muzzle in her direction.

  'What's that for?'

  'Just in case you decide to pull any of that Rambo shit,' he said. 'You can take that strap off but leave on the ones on your legs.'

  'No need to worry, I promise to be a good little girl.' Darby winked at him and grabbed the clipboard with both hands.

  She pretended to read through the pages again as she considered her options. It didn't take her long since she didn't have any.

  She picked up the cheap Bic pen from her lap.

  'That'a girl.'

  She removed the thick stack of sheets from the clipboard and found pages fifteen through twenty. She placed them on the top of the stack.

  'What are you doing?' he asked.

  'I want to read these carefully, make sure I understand everything since my head's feeling, you know, a little thick.'

  'Smart move.'

  Darby read through the five pages again as Army Boy watched, his hand still gripping the tranquillizer gun. He kept stealing glances at his watch. When she placed the clipboard on her lap, he watched as she signed her name.

  She held up the signed sheet for him to inspect and saw some of that caged heat leave his gaze. She placed the page on the edge of the desk, signed the next one, held it up for him and then placed it on the desk. By the time she'd moved on to the third page, his shoulders had relaxed.

  All five pages were now signed and sitting on the desk.

  'Can I go now?'

  'Not yet,' he said, leaning back in his chair. He kept the gun on the table, pointed at her, and crossed his legs. 'You need to initial the other ones to say you've read them. And don't forget to sign where stated.'

  Darby picked up the loose pages from the desk. She shuffled them together and tucked them behind the clipboard resting on her lap.

  She read the first page on the stack, initialled it and held it up for him. He nodded and she placed it on top of the desk.

  Darby went through the same motion — reading each sheet, signing it, holding it up for inspection, placing it on the desk — for the next twenty or so sheets. Then she reached underneath the clipboard and placed her fingers on the pages resting on her lap — those five lovely pages that spelled out in great detail what would happen if she decided to poke her pretty little nose into this investigation — and pushed them between her thighs.

  Her legs pressed together, she picked up the loose collection of pages, shuffled them and then placed them behind the stack resting on the clipboard. She moved it to the side and glanced quickly at her lap, pleased to find that she couldn't see the pages tucked between her thighs.

  'I'd like some water,' she said.

  'I'll get you a bottle on your way out.'

  'You're the one who made the offer. I'd like it now please. And I need to use the bathroom.'

  'Then I suggest you hurry up and finish.'

  She was about to sign the next sheet when she hesitated.

  'There's nothing in here about your returning my tactical equipment.'

  'Confiscated,' he said.

  'When am I going to get it back?'

  'You're not. It's evidence, part of our investigation.'

  'Why is the army investigating this case?'

  'Domestic terrorism. We're working in conjunction with the FBI and the ATF.'

  Which meant they had most likely pushed the New Hampshire detectives to the sidelines. The government hated sharing information among themselves, let alone with state or local police.

  'What about my clothes?'

  'Incinerated,' he said. 'But you'll be happy to know we managed to salvage your keys and all the plastic stuff in that little leather wallet of yours. The wallet and cash we had to incinerate, but the rest of it we decontaminated, free of charge. Why do you carry a guy's wallet? I thought pretty ladies like yourself carried handbags.'

  'I can stick it in my front pocket. What about my phone?'

  'Don't know anything about that.'

  'You going to reimburse me?'

  'Talk to someone in New Hampshire.'

  Darby looked up. 'I'm talking to you. I invested a lot of money in that equipment.'

  'Take it as a tax write-off.'

  'I need to use the bathroom.'

  'Finish signing and initialling, and you'll be good to go.'

  She did, making a dramatic show of being uncomfortable.

  When the last page was signed, she picked up the clipboard. The pages weren't fastened underneath the clip, and when she went to hand the clipboard over, they fell and spilled across the floor.

  'Sorry about that,' she said, and tossed the clipboard on the desk. 'I've got to use the bathroom now. I'm bleeding.'

  Confused, he examined her arms and face.

  'My period,' she said.

  Now he looked disgusted. He sprang to his feet and then wheeled her out of the room and across a painfully bright white hall to a bathroom door with a handicap sign. Standing around the corner were two army boys dressed in fatigues, heavy jackets and caps. Both white males, both young and packed with muscle — and name tags. She saw them sewn into their jackets: Anthony and Weeks. The tall one with the doughy face, Weeks, had a submachine gun strapped across his chest.

  'They'll take you on out after you're done,' Billy Fitzgerald said.

  Then he grinned and winked at her. 'Remember to behave yourself out there, missy.'

  22

  Darby glanced up at the ceiling, looking for security cameras. In a place like this she wouldn't have been surprised to find one peering down at her, but the white walls were bare. She removed t
he Velcro straps and tossed them into the metal trash bin sitting next to the toilet. Then she got to her feet, pulling the folded sheets free from her thighs, and locked the door.

  Billy Fitzgerald's parting words with their smug tone echoed through her head: Remember to behave yourself out there, missy.

  Don't worry, I will, she thought, about to rip up the sheets and flush them down the toilet when another thought, this one more pleasing and appealing, occurred to her: Billy Fitzgerald had touched these pages. She could run his prints through the automated fingerprint database. Military personnel and law enforcement officers were required by law to submit their fingerprints to IAFIS.

  Is that right? Billy Fitzgerald asked in her mind. And why, pray tell, are you going to do that?

  Because I don't believe you're in the army.

  She didn't have any proof, just a gut feeling based on the military men she knew who had served in Iraq or Afghanistan. Almost every one of them had some sort of military tattoo proudly inked on a forearm or bicep. It was a rite of passage. Her father, a former marine, had ink on both of his meaty biceps: the USMC emblem in faded blue on his right arm, and on the left, this one more colourful and intricate, the classic USMC bulldog with the words Semper Fi.

  Billy Fitzgerald didn't have any tattoos, and, while that wasn't necessarily odd — not every military man got tattooed — he didn't have a military-regulation haircut. And he hadn't shaved either. If he wasn't military, why was he pretending?

  Darby folded the sheets into a small square. Wrapped them up in a paper towel and tucked that in the front of the big hospital granny-panties they'd given her. You couldn't see a bulge under the baggy scrubs. She kicked the toilet handle with her foot and then went to the sink to wash her hands.

  Walking out of the bathroom, the GI Joe named Anthony barked at her to park her ass back in the wheelchair.

  Darby rolled it out of the bathroom, thinking about how easy it would be to take both these young bucks down. The big ones packed with show muscle weren't used to getting hit, especially in the way she did, especially by a girl. Two punches each, maybe four, and she could have them on their knees, sobbing.