The Ebony Finches: A Transition Magic Thriller

by J. E. Hopkins

  “I’m very sorry for your loss. My partner and I didn’t spend much time with Shin, but we both became very attached.”

  A smile flickered and was gone. “Shin talked about both of you a great deal. Especially your partner. I think he had a crush on her.”

  “Stony can have that effect,” John said. “Thank you again for your time. I’ll keep this as short as I can.”

  Gonzales looked down at his clasped hands resting the surface of the table.

  “Did the police come get Shin’s birds?”

  John and Stony had visited the house before Shin’s death and confirmed that his pet finches were indeed black with scarlet eyes. John had arranged for the police to retrieve the birds and hold them until the CDC could arrange to have them shipped to Washington.

  “Yes.” Gonzales didn’t look up.

  John worked his way through his questions about Shin’s medical history, his friends, and after school activities. Gonzales answered the questions with no elaboration, as if forming a sentence demanded more energy than the man could summon.

  “Just a few more questions,” John said, “and we’re done.”

  His phone vibrated. He’d established a rhythm with Gonzales and didn’t want to interrupt it. He left his phone in his pocket and ignored the call.

  “How about your personal medical history? You have a cold in the last few weeks?”

  “No.”

  “Sniffles?”

  “No.”

  “Anything, no matter how trivial?”

  John’s phone buzzed again. He continued to ignore it.

  “Nothing.”

  “How often do you see Brian Forrest?”

  If Gonzales was surprised by the change in direction, he didn’t show it. He looked up from the table. “It varies. Maybe a couple times a week.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  Gonzales paused for a several moments. “I’m not sure, but probably at this meeting he’d set up. Some sales weasel was trying to sell us new motors. Boring as hell.”

  “You remember the date?” John wanted to confirm that Gonzales and Natalie’s father were talking about the same meeting.

  “No. I can call the mill and get the dates, but I do remember it was during the week before Natalie got sick.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d get the exact date. And I’ll need a list of everyone who was in the meeting. You can call my cell or send me an email. My contact info is on the card I gave you.”

  “Sure.”

  “Did the two of you shake hands or use the same sink in a bathroom? I’m looking for any shared physical contact.”

  “Not likely. Brian gets all puckered up if someone touches him. It’s a running joke at the mill. I’m careful not to spook him.”

  “Mr. Forrest recalled that the two of you shook hands,” John said.

  Gonzales shrugged. “I don’t remember every time I shake hands. But Brian’s so twitchy about being touched…”

  “Yes?”

  “Hell, I don’t know, maybe we did.”

  “Carlos?” Marjorie Gonzales had slipped into the kitchen and was standing behind John.

  He turned to greet her. Her light brown hair looked liked a greasy birds nest and her red-rimmed eyes were swollen. She was barefoot, wearing a belted crimson silk robe that reached to her knees.

  She shifted her gaze to John. “I’m sorry, Mr. Benoit. Please forgive my interruption, but Carlos has an appointment with an ophthalmologist. He needs to leave or he’ll be late.” Her voice was rough and low, like she hadn’t spoken for a long time.

  “I’m not going, Margie,” Gonzales said. “It’s a waste of time and I don’t feel like seeing anyone right now.”

  “Did you cancel the appointment?”

  “No. Adam will understand.”

  “Fine.” Marjorie Gonzales’ tone indicated that her husband’s decision was anything but fine. She wiped tears from her cheeks and stomped from the room.

  Carlos looked at John. “Sorry. I came home a few weeks ago with eyes so bloodshot that they scared Margie. She insisted on making an appointment with an ophthalmologist friend. I’d forgotten about it, to tell the truth.”

  Huh. Nothing medical, no matter how trivial?

  “Can you recall when you had the problem?” John asked.

  Gonzales looked like his attention was a thousand miles away. He returned the kitchen slowly. “What?”

  “Can you recall when you had the problem with your eyes?” John asked.

  Carlos drifted away for several moments. “I get irritated eyes a lot. The converting room at the plant is a dusty place, even with all the filters on the air handlers. I put a few drops in my eyes and things are fine.”

  Let’s come at this a different way.

  “This must have been a little worse than usual or your wife wouldn’t have insisted on you seeing a doctor.”

  “She’s a …” Gonzales paused. “She worries a lot. Doesn’t take much for her to want to see a doctor. She’d drag Shin off to the pediatrician at the drop of a hat. Now, with what happened, I think she’s going to be a lot worse.”

  “Was there anything in particular that bothered her about your eyes?”

  Gonzales sighed. “I suppose. I had two blood-red spots in the corners of both eyes, almost like I was about to cry blood. Cleared up a few hours after I got home, but Margie made the appointment anyway.”

  A faint alarm sounded in John’s mind.

  Didn’t Forrest say something about his eyes being red?

  “When was this?”

  Gonzales sat quietly, his eyes focused on something John couldn’t see. He nodded. “August fifth. It was Shin’s gotcha day. The anniversary of the day we picked him up at the orphanage. I’d worked a double the day before.”

  “And the day after that—the sixth—Shin woke up with his eyes changed. Do I have that right?”

  “Yes.”

  Meeting on the third. Natalie in Transition on the fourth. Shin on the sixth. Could be a coincidence.

  John’s mental alarm grew so shrill that he was a little surprised Carlos Gonzales couldn’t hear it.

  As John walked to his rental car, he thought about the pieces of the puzzle that had started to fall into place during his interview with Gonzales.

  Adults are T-Plague carriers. The disease gets passed from one adult to another. They spread it to kids who are entering Transition. Bloodshot eyes are the only adult manifestation of the disease.

  He shook his head.

  I’m jumping to conclusions. But the pieces fit the facts. We need more data, more cases.

  He was startled by the implications of his last thought.

  What a horror to wish for.

  His phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, saw that it was Doc PJ, and took the call.

  “Benoit. Sorry I didn’t take your call earlier, I was talking to—”

  “That wasn’t me.” PJ’s voice was tight and clipped. “Just got word of two more sick kids. Headed to the hospital now.”

  John knew that his thoughts hadn’t conjured the expansion of the disease, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt that drove everything from his mind.

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  PJ was gone from the call before John could say anything more. He got into the car and checked his phone for messages. The call that he’d ignored during the interview with Gonzales had come from Akina. He called her back as he pulled into traffic.

  “Ms. Beane? It’s John Benoit, returning the Director’s call.”

  “Excellent, agent Benoit. Hold please.”

  “Dish?”

  “Sorry I didn’t take—”

  “What’ve you learned?”

  Too early. If I tell her what I’m thinking, she’ll put a bunch of people on it. If I’m wrong, we will have wasted time that we don’t have. More kids will die.

  “Nothing conclusive. Still pulling pieces together. Why’d you call?”

 
“I need you back in Washington.” She briefed him on the threat to use T-Plague magic against the president and Stony’s departure for Pecos, Texas.

  “You going to be able to keep the story out of the mainstream media?”

  “Maybe, for a day or two. But I’m afraid it’s going to get away from us in Europe. Once that happens, the US press will tell us to shove the national security prohibition and we’ll be looking at wall to wall coverage.

  “Yeah, goddamn it.”

  “That’s not the worst of it. More cases are popping up—Europe, China, California, and we have a half-dozen reports from New York city.”

  “How many total?”

  “Hard to know with certainty, but several dozen.”

  “How about mortality stats?”

  “Again, we don’t have enough data.”

  “Then let me ask you this: do we have an instance where one kid with the disease lived more than thirty days?”

  The DTS director was quiet for a long moment. “No.”

  “That’s what I thought. I need a little more time before I head back. Two more cases just turned up.”

  “There are cases everywhere. You can’t personally investigate them all. I need you running the task force.”

  I've got to give her a reason to let me have more time.

  “Look, I might be onto something.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I may have found a connection between the Natalie’s and Shin’s cases. If I’m right, we might be able to warn people and slow this thing down until we figure out the root cause. Maybe. It’s a stretch, Akina, even for me. If I divert our attention for a red herring, we’ll—”

  “What’s the connection?”

  John hesitated. “I need to call Natalie’s father and confirm something he told me earlier today. Plus I need to see the parents of the two kids whose cases were just reported.”

  “Waiting is a bad idea, John. What if you get beer-trucked before you get back to me?”

  No answer to that question.

  He sighed.

  In for a penny, in for a pound.

  “I think T-Plague may be carried by adults and passed on to their kids. And I think the adults who’ve been exposed have a characteristic, but temporary, eye inflammation.” He paused. “Promise me that you’ll keep this between us for now. I’ll finish up here, then go to New York and see what I can learn from those cases.”

  Akina was quiet for a few moments. “I want you back in DC first thing, the day after tomorrow. You have until then to run this down. Either give me enough on this lead that we can run with it, or tell me that it’s bogus.”

  John’s temper flared.

  What the hell is it about bureaucrats, even newly minted ones, that make them oversimplify?

  “Akina, I can’t promise—”

  “Day after tomorrow, Agent Benoit. First thing.”

  “Director, you know better than—”

  “We’ve got dozens of kids sick and dying, headed towards God knows how many more. Get this lead pinned down, John.”

  19

  Pecos, Texas

  Stony made it to Joint Base Andrews with minutes to spare. The secret service team of four men was already on board the Gulfstream VI. A tow-headed, slender man who looked too young to be a senior agent sat in the front starboard seat and openly appraised her as she scanned the cabin.

  “Care to join me, Agent Hill?”

  He had the most seductive voice of anyone Stony had ever met.

  Liquid velvet, with a hint of single malt.

  She extended her hand, then took the seat across the aisle. “‘Stony’ works just fine, Agent Hammer.”

  He nodded. “Ron.”

  Their voices were swallowed by the sounds of the jet's twin Rolls Royce engines winding up. They were airborne ten minutes after she took her seat, climbing at twice the angle of commercial flights. As they leveled out, the pilot announced that they would be cruising at thirty-nine-thousand feet and that the flight would take four hours and twenty minutes.

  Secret Service Airlines is a nice way to travel.

  She leaned forward in the ivory leather seats and called across the narrow aisle. “Blunt or tactful?”

  “Please?”

  Huh. He’s from Cincinnati.

  John, a Cincy native, had taught her that it was the only place in the US where the locals used “please” for excuse me. Something to do with the city’s German heritage. She hadn’t talked to him since the secret service director had appeared in Akina’s office and she missed the quirky son of a bitch.

  “Do you prefer the DTS agent who usurps your lead role to be blunt or tactful?”

  Hammer laughed. “I’m tempted to say tactful to see if you could pull it off, which, based on your file, I doubt.”

  This guy’s smile could light up Carlsbad Caverns.

  “I’m pissed,” Stony said with a smile. “You got my file. How come I didn’t get yours?”

  “Probably because you’re not worthy.”

  It was Stony’s turn to laugh. “Any of your team going to have a problem with me as lead?” She had raised her voice to ensure that her question carried through the cabin.

  Hammer matched her voice level. “They might bitch, but that’s like breathing. They’ll do what you tell them, no questions asked. Or I’ll kick their asses back to DC and they can ride a desk.”

  Satisfied, she turned to face the front of the plane and closed her eyes.

  Another John-ism. When you’re in the field, sleep whenever you get the chance. It might have to last you for awhile.

  Stony stood behind and to the right of Hammer, her hand on the butt of her weapon, as he knocked on the screen door of 1506 Arroyo Drive in Pecos, Texas. They’d arrived at six-fifteen local time. There was no rush-hour traffic in the dusty, west-Texas town, mirroring the closed and dilapidated businesses that lined the streets. They’d made it to the Wells’ home twenty minutes after touchdown.

  The peeling, faded white clapboard exterior looked the same as the other places in the neighborhood—1950’s ranch-style homes with four or five rooms sitting on a slab. A cracked asphalt driveway led to an empty adjoining carport with a rusting metal roof.

  Stony had asked Hammer to take the lead on the interrogation. She was tacitly acknowledging the secret services’ expertise in pursuing threats against the president, while reminding him that she was making the calls.

  One agent stood at the curb, near the white Chevy Impala that had been waiting for the team at the Pecos Municipal Airport. The other two had nonchalantly strolled between the neighboring homes and positioned themselves at the rear of the house. Stony, wearing navy pants and a white polo shirt, might have passed as a civilian. All four secret service agents were dressed in dark suits, white shirts, black tie, and sunglasses.

  These guys might as well put bulls-eye on their backs.

  A woman roughly matching the driver’s license photo for Clair Jane Wells came to the door, her eyes darting between Hammer and Stony. Shoulder-length black hair partially concealed a swollen mass of cuts and bruises.

  “Yes?”

  Ron and Stony flipped open their cred wallets, displaying their photo ID’s and badges. “I’m agent Ron Hammer with the Secret Service. This is my partner, agent Stony Hill.”

  No mention of the DTS. No tip-off that we’re here to talk about threats of magic.

  “Are you Claire Jane Wells?” Hammer asked.

  Wells pushed her hair behind her ears, then realized what she’d done and brushed it back over the sides of her face. “How do you know my name? What’s this about?” Her voice was hoarse and weak.

  “I’ll be happy to explain,” Hammer said. “Could we come inside?”

  Wells hesitated a moment, then pushed on the screen to open the door. “You’ll need to be quick. I’m not feeling well.” She turned and led them to the living room, her movements uncertain and jerky, as if her torso had been pummeled with a bat.

/>   Stony fought to contain a surge of anger.

  I fucking hate bastards who beat women. Whoever did this had better guard his balls.

  The two agents sat next to each other on a green vinyl couch, facing Wells across a rectangular coffee table topped with a ceramic tile mosaic of a saguaro cactus.

  “What do you want?”

  Wells’ voice had gained strength, but she was sitting on the edge of her chair, fidgeting, like she might bolt at the first loud sound.

  “Is your husband home?” Hammer asked.

  “No. He left the day after he got out of prison. I don’t know where he is.”

  The answer came so quickly that Stony wondered how long Claire had been rehearsing it.

  “And your son. Gary Thomas Wells, is it? Is he here?”

  This question seemed to catch her off-guard. Stony noticed that her hands were shaking. “GT’s not here. He’s working late on a school project with some other kids and won’t get home until later. Why are you asking these questions?”

  “Just one more and I’ll explain. Our records indicate that you’re the registered owner of a Dell laptop computer, with an Internet account through the local cable company.”

  Wells stared at the floor, then looked up, avoiding either agent’s eyes. “No. That’s wrong. I sold the computer months ago. GT uses the computers at school now.”

  Lying.

  Hammer was carrying a warrant that would allow them to search the house. He’d originally planned to present it as soon as the door was answered, but Stony had persuaded him to learn as much as possible first.

  “Ms. Wells, we have evidence of a threat against the president that came from a computer registered to this address. To your name. What can you tell us about that?”

  The battered woman’s eyes flicked toward the back of the house. “I don’t know anything about that. I told you, I sold that computer. I needed the money. Whoever bought it must have done that.”

  Hammer pressed harder. “If money is so tight, why didn’t you cancel your account with your Internet provider?” His tone made it clear that he didn’t believe her.

  A red flush spread up Wells’ neck and across her face. She glared at Hammer. “Get out of my house. Now.”