Which, fair or not, precisely coincided with Daniel's own sentiments. He took a deep breath, willed his hands to stop shaking. "Okay. Where's your knife?"
"Sorry, Mr. Conrad." Outside the ambulance, the detective apologized for the tenth time. Next the obsequious creep would offer to lick Conrad's boots. "We, uh... There were rumors that you'd, uh, passed away, sir."
"Do I look like a ghost to you, detective?" Conrad laughed, a perfect mock-up of the real item, and slapped the man's shoulder for emphasis.
"No, sir." Dutifully, the detective chortled. Then he slid another withering glare at the two beat cops who'd been summoned to the scene by a neighbor with acute hearing and had proceeded to arrest Simmons and his pet Goa'uld.
Simmons devoutly hoped that the pair would end up directing traffic for the rest of their natural lives. He shifted on the gurney, just as the paramedic inserted a probe into the wound canal. "Ow! Goddammit, watch what you're doing!"
"Sorry, sir." Blushing, the woman steadied his arm. "The lidocaine should be working by now. I can give you another shot, but you really ought to let us take you to the ER."
"No! I haven't got time for that. Just get the hell on with it."
The only glimmer of satisfaction Simmons could wring from the situation was the fact that Maybourne, son of a bitch that he was, had managed a clean shot. The bullet had gone in and out, missing the bone, and CSI had found the damn thing embedded in the tunnel wall. What they hadn't found, thankfully, was his own Glock. The gun might have detracted a little from the surprisingly convincing tale Conrad had spun to the police.
Speaking of... Through the open doors of the ambulance, Simmons had been able to admire the red and blue lightshow the police cruisers projected onto the facade of St. Christina's. Now the detective's stocky shape interposed itself between him and the vista.
"You alright, sir?" The detective, clearly one of Seattle's finest, screwed on a solicitous face.
"I got shot in the arm! How do you think I am?"
"Uh, sir?" The man climbed aboard. "Mr. Conrad has cleared up the, uh, misunderstanding and filled us in on what happened, but I'll need a statement from you, too, sir."
"Fine. Whatever." Just as long as it took his mind off the paramedic's clumsy ministrations. A flash from somewhere beyond the police cordon exploded in his eyes, and Simmons swore. His portrait plastered all over the six o'clock news was the last thing he needed. At least they hadn't spotted Conrad. Yet. "For God's sake, get those vultures out of here! Now!"
At the detective's nod a bunch of his minions descended on the representatives of the media and drove them from sight and earshot. "Alright then." He perched on the gurney opposite. "So you're Mr. Simmons. Mr. Frank Simmons?"
"Colonel."
"Sorry, sir?"
"Colonel Frank Simmons. And no, I'm not in uniform, but then I don't usually wear it to bed either."
"Ah. Sony. And your employer is...?
"A government agency."
The detective was starting to look pleasantly pained. "Which agency would that be, sir? There were a few dozen of them last time I checked"
"That's classified."
"Excuse me?"
"What I do and who I work for is classified, Detective. Can we leave it at that?"
"For now, sir." Head bent, the man scribbled something on his notepad. The overhead light illuminated flakes of dandruff sprinkled over greased-back black hair. "So, tell me, Colonel. What were you doing in the old hospital?"
"Mr. Conrad was giving me a tour of the premises. You do realize that the hospital is his property?"
"Yeah, we know that. Still doesn't explain what you were doing there, sir. Not at that time of the night and in the basement of all places." Apparently Mr. Detective was smarter than he looked.
Fine. Simmons made a show of waving away the paramedic who'd just put the finishing touches to the bandage around his arm. Then he sat up and leaned forward until his face was inches from the policeman's and he could smell breath laced with coffee, donuts, and pepperoni pizza. "Detective," he whispered. "I'm not supposed to divulge this to you or anybody else, but in the interest of clearing up this matter I'm willing to reveal certain information that is highly classified. Can I trust you to keep this information to yourself?"
The detective returned a slow, bovine stare and finally nodded.
"Mr. Conrad's company is carrying out some research and development for the Pentagon. Part of this research is being conducted at St. Christina's Hospital."
"In the basement?"
"Mr. Conrad was showing me the ventilation system that serves two of the laboratories. And that's all I can tell you I'm afraid."
This time it seemed to have worked. No more probing in that direction. Instead the detective scratched an old pockmark on his cheek and said, "Fair enough. But see, it still doesn't add up, Colonel. Mr. Conrad thinks the two men who attacked you in the basement were addicts looking for prescription drugs. Now, if I were in those guys' shoes, the basement'd be the last place I look."
Simmons gathered his injured arm and placed the hand in his lap. Hopefully the local anesthetic would wear off soon. He'd rather deal with the pain than with a limb that felt dead like a prosthesis and wouldn't move unless he manipulated it. Pushing aside his discomfort, he dredged up a smile, finely judged, midway between understanding and condescension. "Look, Detective, don't get me wrong. I have the highest respect for Mr. Conrad. In his field he's a genius, no doubt about it. However, he's also a recluse. Which means that he can be a little naive when it comes to the kind of thing you and I deal with on a daily basis. Those men weren't junkies. For starters they were well outside the usual age bracket." Simmons blew out a breath for effect. "I also recognized one of them."
"Come again?" The detective snapped upright on the gurney, all but shivering with excitement.
"The man who shot me is a former colonel in the US Air Force, convicted on high treason and espionage charges. About two years ago he managed to escape from Leavenworth. His name is Harry Maybourne, but he also goes by Charles Bliss and a string of other aliases. Odds are he was trying to find out about the research Conrad is doing for us."
"What about the other one?"
"Never seen him before, but you may safely assume that he's no choirboy. Somebody like Maybourne doesn't waste his time with amateurs."
"Yeah. Reckon you're right on that one, sir. We'll send out an APB."
"Well, if there's nothing else..." Simmons's tone left no doubt that there was to be nothing else. He eased himself off the gurney, grateful to find that standing up posed less of a problem than he'd imagined.
Pocketing his notebook and other paraphernalia, the detective got up too. "I'll get a car to take you and Mr. Conrad wherever you're going."
"That will not be necessary. I have a driver on standby." The voice sounded relaxed and came from the rear of the ambulance. Conrad stood leaning against the door, one hand extended. "Here, Colonel. Let me help you."
The Goa'uld grabbed Simmons's left biceps, harder than necessary and smiling in the knowledge that there would be no protest in front of witnesses. He was playing mind games again. Driven by a brief surge of panic, Simmons meant to reach for the remote that controlled the naquadah collar, then it dawned on him that he was defenseless. The remote was in his right pocket, to be activated by a right arm that currently dangled from his shoulder like a lump of cold flesh.
Conrad's smile broadened. "Mind your step," he said, guiding Simmons down from the ambulance. "Do not worry, we shall not have to go far. The vehicle is waiting at the next comer."
One piece of good news. Simmons's NID agents had had the smarts to clear out and wait on the sidelines as soon as they'd heard the police sirens. The only ones to get caught had been he and Conrad, who'd come to look for him in the basement.
Simmons and his escort passed the police cordon. As soon as they were out of earshot, he yanked his arm free. "Don't ever dare to touch me again!"
I
n the red light strobing from the cruisers, Conrad's face looked truly alien. "As you wish," he whispered, still smiling.
"And you'd better remember it!" Simmons headed for the SUV at the comer, forcing himself not to run. Behind him he could hear Conrad's footfalls, their steadiness seeming to mock him.
As he approached the car, one of the agents got out and opened the passenger door. "You okay, Colonel?"
"I'll survive." Cradling his arm, Simmons sidled into the seat. "Phone our hacker back in DC. Seattle PD are bound to find Hammond's fingerprints somewhere in that barn." He jerked his chin at the hospital. "When they run the prints through AFIS, I want them to get back Hammond's picture and vital stats together with the record of a likely heavy."
"Yessir."
Conrad had arrived and was folding his tall frame onto the rear bench. Simmons resisted the urge to turn around to keep an eye on him. Instead he squinted at the agent. "Actually, let's get them the record of a cop killer. Increases the chances of some state trooper doing us a favor and shooting Hammond on sight."
The man grinned, closed the door, and climbed into the rear. Simmons could hear the soft beep of his cell phone keys. He had perfect pitch, could tell the number just by listening to the sounds: 555-377-8008.
"Where're we going, sir?" asked the driver.
"Cheyenne Mountain. Hammond and Maybourne are bound to try and run home to momma. In the unlikely event that they get there, I want to make sure we've got a welcoming committee in place."
Indigo shadows crawled in, claustrophobic like cobwebs on your face, and Jack turned full circle, surrounded by stone walls, teeming plant-life, smirking statues. God, he hated those things! Couldn't really say why. Maybe he just hated them for the sake of hating something. Shivering, Jack let out a deep breath. This place was getting to him, was all. Too damn quiet for starters. And who was mowing the lawn, anyway?
The grass under his boots was short, evenly clipped, and the odds of the groundkeeper driving a John Deere through here on a regular basis struck him as slim. He remembered, ages ago, reading some science fiction novel where lawn care was handled by tall green things with mouths in their paws. They jumped real well, and when they weren't grazing they sucked unsuspecting tourists dry. Not a good thought.
On the upside and going by the pristine state of the turf, those monster hogs Carter had mentioned probably didn't come to play in this particular circle of hell. Jack checked his watch. Twenty minutes left. He'd better find that firewood. Ahead was an archway, muffled by shadows. Either side of it, more statues, peering from the gloom with a greediness that made him squirm and broadcasted a recommendation to stay out. Yeah, well. Maybe next time. Ignoring the faces, the stares, he moved through the archway into some kind of temple.
The darkness drooping beneath the vaulted ceiling seemed rancid, ancient, as if it'd been hanging there since the day this bastard of a planet had congealed from primordial soup to whatever it purported to be now. Evening twilight trickled through a high, narrow window, lifting charcoal to medium gray and outlining an array of wooden screens, not unlike the kind you'd find in an old Catholic church. Except for the artwork, of course. That was about as far removed from Catholic statuary as you could get. And the sense of being watched hadn't lessened. On the contrary. It was almost physical, stroked his neck, his back, a congregation of popsicle millipedes boogieing up and down his spine.
Pulse thudding in his throat, he did another slow three-sixty, staff weapon raised and primed this time. Nothing. But the creepy sensation of being touched by a ghost had ceased. For now. Jack struggled to control his breathing and slipped between two screens, in the hopes of finding something wooden and portable back there. Zip. Not even a chair. Carter was dying, and all they had on offer were goddamn screens and prying eyes!
Fury, blinding and irrational, sloshed over him in a red-hot wave. He smashed the staff into a screen, sent splinters flying, threw the weapon after them. The Rakshasas again, Fear, Terror, and Death, and that was just fine by him; he'd take them apart chip by chip and with his bare hands if he had to, punch holes in their grinning faces. His fists crashed into the panel, leaving smears of blood, kept pounding regardless, needing the pain to numb a different kind of agony, again and again and-
"Don't move!" Though cold beyond freezing the voice sounded vaguely familiar.
Notwithstanding, hanging around for the reunion didn't seem advisable. Adrenaline still fizzing through his body, Jack dropped, rolled under a screen just ahead of the track of bullets that hammered dust and stone flakes from the floor. Damn! So he'd felt watched for a reason. Another round tore through the screen, whisked past his head. Slugs, not energy bolts. The shooter-a woman, incidentally-probably wasn't Jaffa, but she had X-ray vision anyway. The next round was half an inch closer.
You're a shrub, O'Neill! What the hell made you think this was a safe place to throw a tantrum?
His opponent was on the move, slowly edging her way around the wooden partition. Butted up against another screen four meters away lay his staff weapon, and the lighting or absence thereof would work to his advantage. Maybe. Disregarding the protests from assorted parts of his anatomy, Jack burst from cover, dived for the staff weapon-with catlike grace, he would have liked to think, though reality was more along the lines of a startled bullfrog-grabbed it, brought it up rolling onto his back, and fired. Some pals of Fear, Terror, and Death flew apart in a shower of shards and smoke, and then a shadowy figure gradually straightened up behind what was left of the screen. Along the handle of the weapon Jack was staring at the shellshocked face of Dr. Janet Fraiser.
"Colonel O'Neill! What in God's name are you doing here?"
"For cryin' out loud! What is this? The local feminist association trying to eradicate me? First Carter and now you!"
"Sam? You've found Sam?"
"Let's just say she found me. Mind pointing that gun someplace else? If it goes off now, it'll take out equipment I'd hate to lose."
"I'm sorry, Colonel. I'm so sorry." Hands trembling, Fraiser lowered her weapon. She had a nasty gash on the side of her head and a starved look about her, but otherwise she seemed to be in full working order. Thank God for that. "I could have-"
"Save it." Oscillating between irritation and giddy relief, Jack skipped the sideways shuffle and heave that would have allowed him to get to his feet relatively pain-free and hauled himself up the staff weapon instead.
She watched his performance with an air of solemn curiosity and stated, "You're injured."
"Yeah. Must have forgotten to read the health warning on the label before I let myself be dumped in this place. Where's Teal'c?"
An odd flicker of uncertainty and something else-indefinably wrong-raced through her eyes. It could be shock, grief, the twilight in this ghost train of a room, any of a hundred things, including Jack's own paranoia. "We were separated. I've spent days searching, but..." She gave a small shrug and nodded at the jungle vista outside the window, now rapidly changing from green to black.
"Crap," Jack muttered softly. Then again, it probably would have been too much to hope for to get back Fraiser and Teal'c in one handy package and, admittedly, he was worried a little less about the big guy than he had been about the doc. "It's alright. We'll find him. Meanwhile, you ready to make a house call?"
Shaking off whatever it was that had rooted her in place, she picked her way through the wreckage. "What did you do now?"
"Not me! Carter. Here, take as much of this stuff as you can carry." He gathered some chunks of wood, piled them into her arms.
Over bits of splintered screen, she gazed at him wide-eyed. "Sam? What's wrong with her? Where is she?"
"I left her and Daniel in some lobby with a waterfall. Very feng shui."
"I've been there. Reminded me of The King and I. What about Sam, sir?"
"She isn't doing so good." He picked up some more shards, stacked them atop the pile she was holding.
"Colonel?" Okay, that was more like Fraiser, comple
te with her best Don't hold out on me or it'll hurt look.
"It's gangrene, Doc."
Fraiser damn near dropped the wood. "You're sure, sir?"
"Positive." That impotent rage threatened to surge back, and he put a boot through what was left of the screen, scooped up the fragments, grabbed the staff weapon. "Let's go."
Outside a lilac moon had begun to crawl over the treetops, casting dishwater light on forest and buildings and flattening perspectives until the statues looked like old black-and-white photographs. Fraiser headed for a narrow alley between two buildings. It was pitch-dark but seemed to have the advantage of being statue-free.
"Hey, Doc? Where're you going?"
"It's a shortcut." Sensing his hesitation, she stopped and turned. The moonlight made her face appear bloodless. "I've been spending nights here ever since I lost Teal'c, sir. I know my way around."
"Fair enough. Lead on."
He followed her through oppressive silence. The grass swallowed any sound of their footfalls, and the only noises, barely audible, were Fraiser's soft breaths and his own and, faintly, the splashing of the waterfall. It quickly grew louder, and when Janet led him from another alley out onto a broader thoroughfare, he could make out the pillared front of the hall.
Somewhere behind the pillars hovered a dull gleam of brightness. Probably a flashlight, probably a lousy idea, and both Carter and Daniel ought to know better, but he was grateful to see it. Picking up his pace, he half-ran past Fraiser, past the outer line of columns, and across the hall.
"Hey, kids! Look who-"
Stopping hadn't been a conscious decision. It'd been more like slamming into a wall. Daniel knelt by the prone figure on the ground, diving knife in hand-had to be Carter's, Jack thought absently-and looked up at him with an odd mix of anguish and pity in his eyes. A tourniquet around Carter's leg, on the floor a discarded syringe, empty, glinting in the beam of the flashlight.
"Daniel?" Jack's voice sounded alien, even to him.
Stargate SG-1: Survival of the Fittest: SG1-7 Page 19