by Jack Kilborn
I’m a Level 6. I’m the worst one of all.
Plincer lamented not being able to study his own brain before the ferals killed him.
But the ferals didn’t approach Plincer. They looked at him closely, gave each other brief nods, and then left him there in the box, helpless and agonized and alone and wondering how long car batteries lasted before they ran out of juice.
Seven hours, it turned out. But Plincer succumbed to a heart attack after enduring only six.
The cut on her hand was bad, and Sara wondered if she would lose her fingers. But even if she did, it was a small price to pay for surviving.
The four of them, including the Woman in Blue, walked along the beach until they found Captain Prendick’s dinghy, hidden behind some rocks. As Sara has guessed, the bullets and Martin’s knife had barely made a dent in the painting’s Plexiglas frame. When something was worth twenty-five mil, it was a good bet it was going to be well protected. Of course the glass was bulletproof. A master like Van Gogh didn’t deserve any less.
Cindy was the only one with two good hands, so she had to start the dinghy’s engine and steer it out to Prendick’s boat. She was awkward at first, but quickly got the hang of it, and was actually smiling by the time they got there.
Sara found Prendick’s radio, and called the Coast Guard. The real Coast Guard. And just to be sure, she spoke with ten other boats currently on Lake Huron and asked them for help too.
She was exhausted, but she refused to so much as sit down until they were safe.
“So what we gonna do,” Tyrone said. “Put the ho up on eBay?”
“I don’t think the Van Gogh Museum willingly sells their paintings,” Sara said, figuring the Chinese men must have done something unlawful to persuade them. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to buy it back.”
“For twenty-five million?”
“I don’t know, Tyrone.”
“You not gonna keep all the money, on account of me being a minor, are you?”
Sara allowed herself a small smile. “I think a three way split is fair, don’t you both?”
Tyrone nodded. “That’s eight million, three hundred thirty three thousand, three hundred thirty three dollars each.”
Cindy gave him a playful punch in the shoulder. “How’d you figure that out so quick?”
“Girl, you got yourself involved with a society’s worst nightmare. An intelligent black man.”
“And I thought I was only interested your body and your money.”
“You really interested in my body?”
They kissed, and Sara gave them their privacy.
She went onto the deck. Lake Huron was a giant blue mirror, stretching out as far as Sara could see. She closed her eyes. Even with all the pain she was in, the sun felt glorious on her face.
Then, to her left, she heard a soft thump.
Sara’s heart didn’t race. Her palms didn’t sweat. Her mouth didn’t go dry. She didn’t so much as flinch.
It’s nothing. But even if it is something, I can handle it. I can handle anything.
Languidly, Sara opened her eyes. A seagull stood on the deck, a few feet away from her. It cocked its tiny head, did a little hop, and then spread its wings, flying past Sara. She watched it glide off across the big water, beautiful and free and marvelously alive, changing directions to avoid hitting the Coast Guard cutter heading their way.
Most of the ferals were dead. Martin was dead. Subject 33 was dead. Doctor Plincer was dead. The island was quiet, almost peaceful.
There would be authorities coming soon. They’d stay for a while, and round up the few remaining ferals. They would search the prison, and discover the lab, and the serum, and take all of it away.
It didn’t matter what they took. It didn’t matter how hard they searched. They wouldn’t find the prison’s secret room.
Mordecai Plincer built the secret room during the civil war. The door was brick, and it looked exactly like the prison walls, carefully balanced on hidden hinges. The seams blended into the brick’s design, making it impossible to see, even if you were standing right next to it.
The secret room had a toilet, and a sink, and electricity. Dr. Plincer updated it when he came to the island, ten years ago. He’d picked workers who wouldn’t be missed, and after the secret room was modernized, they succumbed to Plincer’s experiments.
The secret room was the perfect place for Lester to heal.
He needed to stock the room first, of course. All the food from the kitchen would last maybe a week, so Lester would have to supplement it. Two or three of the corpses should tide him over. The freezer was large enough.
Lester would also need drugs, antibiotics, and pain killers, from the lab. The fall from the cliff had shattered his left arm. He wasn’t sure if he could set the bone himself, but he would have plenty of time to try while he waited for the authorities to leave.
And they would leave, eventually. There would be hoopla for a while. Media. News and TV. Not only because of Dr. Plincer and the deaths of the children, but because there was a previously unknown historical discovery on this island. A secret prison, piled high with the bones of dead Confederate soldiers.
Lester guessed it would soon become a landmark.
Landmarks meant visitors. Lots of visitors.
All he had to do was be patient.
Lester Paks closed his eyes and smiled a toothless smile.
He could feel himself getting better already.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 711fd1c9-3a5f-4090-b26e-7c944b460bd5
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 20.6.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.56, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Jack Kilborn
J.A. Konrath
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