Harry heard the question as he put away the groceries. “She’s in the shower.”
“Actually, out of the shower,” Anastasia answered as she made her way into the room and greeted the agent with a cheery, “Morning, Agent Farrell.”
She wore a bright yellow skirt and matching blouse. Barefoot—she never wore shoes and neither did he—she twirled around. “How do you like it?”
“Perfect,” replied Harry as he took his time admiring the view. Yellow had always been her color.
“You look fine, and good morning, in that order,” Farrell answered, and wiped his face as he took a seat on a nearby couch. “Sorry, I guess I’m a bit out of condition.”
Taking a good look at him, Harry wondered if he was hiding something. He did look a little thinner, though, but stress from the job, living a single life—Farrell was divorced—and keeping late hours wasn’t the healthiest thing around.
In a situation such as this, it was better to say nothing, and he excused himself to walk into the bedroom and get dressed. He decided to wear a fancy dress shirt. It hid most of the fur, but his catlike features, yellow eyes and general appearance of being the other couldn’t be hidden, even if he shaved all over. Shaving, by the way, didn’t work. The hair always grew back within a day.
As he walked out of the bedroom, Farrell greeted him with “You look fine, too.” He sat on the couch observing the activity with his usual stony expression, but it seemed as though the semblance of a smile was beginning to form at the corners of his mouth.
“You mean, Anastasia looks great,” said Harry as he tucked in his shirt.
“Of course she does. Do you think I’d be looking at you?” A wry smile accompanied his comeback, and with a grunt, Farrell got to his feet. His face twisted for a moment as if in pain, and then relaxed into its usual hard ass impersonal mode. “I’ve been asked to take you to Manhattan, so if you’re ready, let’s get going.”
After an hour of watching the scenery change from country green to urban steel, they arrived at the studio, and Farrell let them out. “I’ll be waiting here...” he started to say, but a buzz from his pocket stopped him. He took out a cellphone and studied the screen. “Excuse me, this is business. Have a good time.”
Early morning or not, a number of people stopped to gawk, and immediately Harry felt the stares. Anastasia strode ahead and did not deign to return the looks of admiration or disgust, or those that fell in between those two extremes.
Once they were inside the studio, a young woman with a head of frizzy blonde hair and an officious manner came over and introduced herself as Melinda. “I’m Mr. Baskin’s assistant. Do you need anything to eat or drink?”
“We’re fine, thanks,” answered Anastasia with only the faintest trace of annoyance. It was too nice a day to get annoyed, but Harry also felt a twinge of apprehension.
Melinda nodded. “Follow me.”
At least she didn’t gawk, merely ushered them into the studio. There, they took their seats on a stage, two simple wooden chairs side by side, and a larger, more luxurious leather recliner off to their right. “You don’t need any makeup, I take it?” she asked.
What did they expect, hair brushes or personal grooming? Harry started to toss off a snarky answer, but decided to let things play out and answered, “We’re fine, thanks.”
She fitted them with mini-microphones and gave the cue to the cameraman. He gave her a thumbs-up and a few seconds later, the audience filed in. He swung into position, and a fat man in his forties with thinning red hair and a pasty complexion walked out from behind a curtain at the side of the stage and onto the platform.
“I’m Peter Baskins,” he said in a rather high-pitched, reedy voice. “It’s so good of you to make it.” He did not offer to shake hands with either of them.
Harry replied, “Happy to be here,” and immediately got a bad vibe from this man. Pleasant or not, as his wife had already mentioned, Baskins had a reputation of going for the jugular in interviews. Previously, Harry had watched a few videos of him, and Baskins’ manners were, in a word, sordid, always looking for the negative, berating his guests when he found a weak spot. Be careful around this guy was his most immediate thought.
Once the host had taken his seat—luxuriating in it like a potentate—the intro music played and the audience dutifully clapped. “We are live,” a technician called.
Baskins started with some very basic questions, those of how they’d met and the adventures they’d had. Harry answered as well as he could. Farrell had cautioned him beforehand not to say anything about foreign countries’ politics, and he didn’t, but at the very least, the audience responded by clapping in the appropriate places.
However, the mood took a U-turn into the sleazy when Baskins, true to form, got around to the S question which provoked a few chuckles from the audience. “So do you two have sex?”
Anastasia didn’t find his question amusing and let out a soft growl indicating disgust. “We’re married. Does that answer your question?”
This time, her response provoked a general round of laughter from the attendees, but Harry got pissed. This was stepping over the line. Baskins followed up his initial salvo by asking, “And will you two be having any children? I’m wondering what they’ll look like, human or,” he turned to the audience, “freak?”
If he’d wanted a reaction, he certainly got one as the murmurs began in the audience and Anastasia leaned forward in her seat, her eyes shooting off danger signals. “What is your problem? We’re members of this society or haven’t you heard?”
Baskins didn’t seem fazed at all. The look on his face resembled that of tofu. “You may have been granted American citizenship, but you’re still Russian to me.”
He then turned to the audience and related Anastasia’s past, complete with her work as a prostitute. Some of the people in attendance who weren’t in the know let out the expected gasps of shock and surprise, while others muttered something about Euro-trash and the company they kept.
“You knew about all that, didn’t you, Harry,” Baskins stated in the smarmiest of all voices once he turned back.
Flabbergasted at how this man knew something so personal, for a moment Harry didn’t reply. Yes, he knew about his wife’s past. She’d been a prostitute before her transformation. He loved her anyway, and what was done, was done. “I knew,” he finally managed to say. “It doesn’t matter to me. It didn’t then, and it doesn’t now.”
“You were also in jail for illegal genetic research,” the host continued, his eyes beady and predatory. For a fat man, he moved swiftly, and got to his feet in a quick, circular turn, a move only a figure skater would have attempted. He addressed the audience in familiar, almost fatherly terms. “So we have a hooker and an ex-con, and you want them to be part of this great society of ours? I see only monsters and freaks.”
His words ignited something in Anastasia. Jumping to her feet, she strode over and grabbed Baskins by the collar of his shirt with her right hand. The razor-sharp claws on her left hand extended a good two inches which she deftly positioned only a hair’s breadth away from his flabby throat. “It seems the only freak around here is you,” she ground out. “Now I’d like an apology.”
The members in the audience, some of them on their feet, cried for a little order, while others yelled out, “Waste him!” Right now, Harry didn’t know what his wife was about to do. Her eyes radiated pure violence.
“As I thought,” Baskins choked out. “You are a freak.”
With that comment, Harry’s initial thoughts of asking Anastasia to stop all but disappeared. This slob had gone too far. Still, maybe this matter could be resolved peacefully—or as peacefully as possible. “I think we’re done here,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“Not yet,” she growled and lashed out with a closed fist. It connected with Baskins’ jaw and he sagged to the ground, out cold. “Now we’re done here.” She took her mini-microphone off and stamped on it, then walked out.
&nb
sp; As the audience erupted in hoots of laughter as well as shouts of outrage, a few of the members, large, male, young and presumably stupid, started to hurl insults. Some of them charged forward, but security stepped in and held them back. One guard, wearing a faint smile, jerked his head toward the exit. “You’d better get going, sir.”
“That’s the plan,” Harry agreed as he tossed his mic aside and followed his wife to the open spaces.
On the street, she stood grousing about attitudes and vendettas. Pedestrians passed by, shouting greetings. A few people came over, notepads in hand. A young boy perhaps ten years old thrust his notebook at Anastasia and asked in a piping voice, “Could you sign my book, please?” His parents hovered in the background, wearing smiles.
Anastasia quickly wrote her name, which elicited a grateful, “Thanks,” from the boy. He ran off to join his parents, who waved and exited stage left.
“See, at least you’ve got one fan,” Harry said.
She turned around with a faint grin. “It’s better than none.”
More people then crowded around, cameras at the ready. Harry obliged them by posing with Anastasia and things seemed to be going well...
Until Baskins, holding a bloody handkerchief to his mouth, strode over and screamed in full view of the crowd, “Do you see what this... this thing did to me?” He followed up his question by pointing an accusatory finger at Anastasia. “I’m going to sue you, you... you animal!”
With a look of fury on her face, she started forward, but Harry put out his arm and blocked her way. “I’ve got this,” he said. Turning to Baskins, he leveled the man with a single shot to the jaw. Bending over the unconscious blob, he added, “Count on two animals doing this to you.”
Anastasia lingered long enough to throw a look of contempt at the show host. She then took Harry’s hand and they moved off in the direction of Farrell’s car, parked conveniently a few feet away.
Their handler was leaning against the driver’s side, looking at his cellphone intently. “Are you going to say anything?” Anastasia’s voice cut through the air.
“No.” With a slow, deliberate motion, he stowed his cellphone away in his pocket and his voice came out quietly. “I was watching the show. You did right.”
“Did we?” queried Harry, feeling suddenly bereft. This gig was supposed to have smoothed things over. In the end, it seemed that the host had gotten what he wanted. “I guess we can rule out appearing on any more daytime talk shows.”
His comment got a laugh out of Farrell, but there was no humor behind it. “We’ve got other matters to worry about. Get in. I’m taking you both to FBI headquarters. We have to talk.”
Chapter Two: A Visit
Twenty minutes later, the three of them sat in Farrell’s office. Located on the second floor, it overlooked downtown Manhattan, offering a startlingly clear view of the area.
Inside, though, the room was stark and almost bare, save for a bookshelf with some law texts on it, a desk, a few chairs, and a large window. Farrell occupied a chair and tapped buttons on a computer while Anastasia lounged in her own seat. Over her initial fury, she directed her gaze, quiet and thoughtful, at the window, tapping her claws lightly against the table.
No one said a word, and while Harry wanted to ask a million questions, he refrained from doing so. Time was of the essence, or so he thought, but his mentor kept pecking away on the buttons in a slow, methodical manner, as though he had nothing but time.
With the hunt-and-peck thing along with the tapping-of-claws thing going on big time, Harry’s tension mounted exponentially. Finally, after ten minutes had passed and his level of tolerance had reached the breaking point, he asked, “Well?”
His question got an immediate response. Farrell spun the computer around. “We’ve been getting reports the last couple of weeks,” he started off by saying. “They aren’t in North America, but in Western Europe.”
Instantly, Anastasia’s eyes lit up and she swiveled her head to gaze at the screen. “I see countries and that’s all. I don’t need a geography lesson. Do you want to be more specific?”
As if the computer had been anticipating the question, a series of red dots appeared and highlighted France, Italy, and Spain. “We’ve had reports of a series of savage mauling’s and deaths. Sound familiar?”
It did, and Harry asked, “Why didn’t you tell us before?”
“We weren’t sure, not at first, but the bite marks, the slashes... they all indicate something not quite human...” Farrell stopped and leaned over to tap some more buttons. “Take a look.”
A series of pictures appeared, with each one more horrific than the last. People young and old, men, women, and even children, ripped apart or bitten in half. Harry managed to stifle a gasp while Anastasia couldn’t. “How many so far?” She grimaced as she viewed each picture.
The reply came immediately and it was a shocking one, so many people in so short a time. “By our count as well as the officials in those countries, there’ve been ten in France, fourteen in Italy, and twelve in Spain. I...”
Farrell broke off his speech and began to cough. The coughs got heavier and deeper, and he hurriedly tugged at his collar. Loosening it, he heaved in a series of deep breaths, each one sounding like a death rattle.
“Are you feeling all right?” The question came from Anastasia, and she started out of her chair to go over to him. He waved her off.
“I’m fine.”
Clearly, he wasn’t, as his face had gone chalk white and he seemed to be struggling for breath. He bent down and opened a drawer on his desk to withdraw a small bottle of water. Taking a swig, he put the bottle down and cleared his throat. “I’m fine,” he repeated.
He certainly didn’t look fine, but Harry said nothing and waited for the next bad words to come, something along the lines of creatures ripping people in half. Sure enough, Farrell obliged him.
“As you can see from the photos, the attacks indicate something not quite human was responsible. You saw the same thing yourself when you went to Hungary and Serbia before. You know how those mutants killed the innocent.”
A light went off in Harry’s head. In Hungary, not so long ago, he’d faced off against Szabo and defeated him. His girlfriend, a winged thing named Martuska, had knifelike sharp wings and had used them to kill and maim others. Their transformed transgenic minions had also done significant damage to the native populations of that country as well as in Serbia before they’d been stopped. Harry had seen what they could do. These pictures... it couldn’t be anyone else.
“Do you think that scientist survived?”
Farrell’s voice interrupted his musings. He remained silent, but Anastasia arched her eyebrows. “Not sure, but we were there.” She turned to Harry. “You saw. Do you think Kulakov is still alive?”
It was hard to believe anyone could have survived the fall. Kulakov, the former head of the Russian transgenics program—indeed, he’d been its founder—had also been a man... once. He’d begun his tests in Russia and was one of the first to undergo changes. Unfortunately in his case, the changes had been horrid and irreversible. Essentially, he’d devolved into a multi-limbed, very dangerous amoeba.
In a final battle atop a cliff, Harry had defeated him and the scientist had plummeted to his death. The sound of the body splattering upon the rocks had signaled certain demise, one most foul.
However, the scientist, before he died, had alluded to other Genesis Chambers that had been built. Scientific secrets could only remain secret for so long. Sooner or later, someone would get the urge to play god in the laboratory.
It seemed someone had already gotten the urge. Farrell coughed loudly. He still seemed most uncomfortable and reached inside his coat pocket for something. Bringing out a small packet, he extracted a tiny white pill.
“Mint,” he said. “Throat’s still dry.” He popped it out and dry-swallowed it, adding, “We’re checking with our allies in Europe. If we find out anything, we’ll let you know.”
“Uh-huh,” said Harry, thinking hard. Ever since he’d become one of the enhanced, he’d heard from the scientists he’d encountered as well as their followers that a number of transgenics still lived. Estimates ranged anywhere from thirty-five to a hundred, and it was a given some of them had bred. Most of them were European, young, homeless, and shunned by society.
Szabo’s plan had been to take the homeless and disaffected youth and blackmail other countries into giving him his own territory. He’d sown murder and discord over a period of perhaps two months, and before he died he’d said at least thirty of his own enhanced followers were still out there. “And there shall be more. Wait and see, Goldman, there shall be more.”
Ominous words, indeed, and when he’d said more he’d implied a number of healthy young unenhanced would somehow flock to his cause. They would then undergo the procedure that would transform their bodies into something other than human.
To make matters worse, as if they needed to be any worse, many of his would-be disciples were ex-prisoners. The FBI and the various law enforcement agencies in Europe along with Interpol had managed to keep tabs on most of them, but they couldn’t find them all.
Since being released from prison, they hadn’t broken any laws, so arresting them wouldn’t have done any good. It didn’t mean they weren’t thinking of committing crimes. However, they also had rights, and the authorities in Europe had other problems to worry about.
“You did try tracking them down, didn’t you?” Harry had posed the question to Farrell when he came by the cabin one morning a few weeks back.
“We tried, but it was a waste of time.” Farrell sounded dismayed, and had proceeded to say the enhanced transgenics, those not aligned with Szabo, decided for the most part not to advertise their presence. “Considering the size of Europe, not to mention the relative ease of moving from country to country, it’s hard enough to keep track of anyone. These people are good at hiding, and I understand why.”
Online traces hadn’t turned up anything new, either. And as usual, Farrell wasn’t giving them the entire picture. The citizenry in Europe had not been as forgiving as the people in the USA, if only by a matter of degree and not of feeling. Harry had read the reports from various online sources, and the happenings could only be described as appalling.
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