James Patterson - When the Wind Blows

by When the Wind Blows (lit)

  He had always been an "unusual" FBI agent. Hell, that was why they said they had recruited him out of NYU Law. During his interviews he'd been told that the Bureau wanted him because they were too straitlaced and traditional, and therefore too predictable. He was supposed to represent a new, evolved kind of agent. And he sure had! For a while, anyway.

  They had sold hard on the idea of breaking out of the envelope, working outside the box; but once he was inside the organization, he discovered that the FBI really didn't want to change very much. Actually, the Bureau had tried to change him. And when he wouldn't budge, they resented the hell out of it. One of his superiors said, "We didn't join you, Tom. You joined us. So why don't you cut the prima donna horseshit and get with the program like the rest of us?"

  Because he was different. He was supposed to be different. That was the deal - and a deal was a deal.

  Except that the Bureau wasn't keeping their end.

  They resented the corduroy sports jackets, unlogoed ball caps, the jeans, the dock shoes he insisted on wearing to work, and not just on Fridays. And that he read "serious" novels like Underworld and Mason & Dixon and anything Tom Morrison wrote. And that some days he rode his Cannondale racing bike to and from the office in Boston.

  They were bugged by his longish hair and his every-other-day shaving habits and his slight swagger, which didn't represent cockiness, just the fact that he liked to walk around with music playing in his head.

  Most of all, though, the Bureau was incensed by his casual approach to discipline. Right from the start, he was called a loose cannon.

  Worse, he probably was a loose cannon. He'd been one as a gritty middleweight in the Boston Golden Gloves, and as an outspoken, and pretty unconventional undergraduate at Holy Cross, and even at NYU Law.

  Hell, he was a bus driver's son, one of five sons. He had no business being at NYU Law, or maybe even at Cross. Why shouldn't he speak his mind?

  He'd gotten away with it in school, but not at the Federal Bureau. No loose cannons were permitted in the FBI. Not even ones who had solved at least two "unsolvable" murder cases during the past five years.

  Awhh, stop the horseshit, he finally told himself. He was in trouble because he'd been pursuing the "human experiments" case for the past year and a half. Against orders. He had repeatedly disobeyed orders that went high up the chain of command. He was still disobeying orders, and much worse than that.

  "This is Tom Brennan for Agent Stricker," he said when Stricker's overly pleasant, overly efficient assistant came on the line. "How are you, Cindy? Is Peter there for me?"

  "Oh, it's so nice to hear from you, Tom. One moment please." Cindy was overly polite as ever. "I have to check and see if he's at his desk. Be right back to you."

  Surprisingly, Stricker picked up immediately. He spoke in a whisper always. Made you pay attention. The trademark Stricker sibilance.

  "Tom Terrific. How is paradise? How is Nantucket? You're supposed to be sailing, riding the surf. Hanging out at the beach. Get the hell off the telephone."

  "I'm calling from the beach," Kit manufactured a high-spirited, buddy-to-buddy laugh. "Actually, I'm being pretty good for me. I'm on my way to becoming a world-class beach bum up here. There's just one little thing."

  "There always is, Tom. Always just one thing, always a hitch in your swing. You're supposed to be getting used to not worrying about the little things," Stricker told him in the usual soft tones. "Wasn't that our deal?"

  "I know, I know. It was. And I appreciate the few weeks up here. It's just that - I was on the Web this morning. I happened to see that a Dr. Frank Mcdonough was drowned in Colorado yesterday. It really weirded me out. Did you see it, Peter?"

  Stricker couldn't mask his annoyance for a second longer. His whisper rose a notch. "Tom, please let this phantom case go. Stay off the Web for a while. Christ, man. It's already started to wreck a pretty terrific career."

  "Not really. But anyway, there was a Dr. Mcdonough in the original Berkeley think-tank group. I'm sure about that. Would you mind having somebody follow through with it? Maybe Michael Fescoe? Or Manny Patina? Just for my peace of mind? Check and see if it's the same Frank Mcdonough."

  He could tell that Stricker wasn't at all happy with the way the call was going. "Okay, Tom. I can do that for you. I'll check up on the deceased.

  It's Dr. Frank Mcdonough, right? You work on the personal demons.

  Work on your tan. Find some nice Nantucket chick to hang out with.

  Make love, not war."

  "If he's the same Mcdonough, he's number four, Peter. Doctors Kim, Heekin, Mekin, Mcdonough."

  "Right, I know all the particulars of the case, Tom. I know you think there's a missing link, even though the folks in Quantico don't see it that way. I'll take it from here. You take care of the sun and sea."

  "Thanks for the help, Peter. You're the best. I'll check in about Mcdonough, though. Maybe tomorrow?"

  He could hear Stricker's sigh. If it was possible, his voice got even lower. "Give me your number on the island. I'll call you there."

  "No, it's okay. I'll check in. It's really no problem. I'll call you tomorrow. Well, the sun and sea beckon. I even met somebody who I kind of like. I like her looks, anyway. Thanks again for the help, Peter."

  He had to strain to hear Stricker's response.

  "No problem. Try to relax, though. Promise me, Tom. This isn't something you have to worry about anymore. No loose cannon shit. That was our deal. I'll get the info you need on Dr. Mcdonough. I'm doing it because of our friendship."

  Kit hung up the pay phone, and he let out a deep breath. Man, he hated to lie to Peter - and now it was what he did for a living. His whole life had suddenly become a lie.

  Chapter 18

  STOP IT, Mathew! Don't play with my head right now. I'm not in the moodfor it.

  Max had just thought of another of Matthew's dumb lines: Why do kamikaze pilots wear helmets? She could actually hear the sound of Matthew's dumb laugh at his own dumb jokes. Hardee-bar-bar! He always did that. Annoying little twit that he was.

  She still hadn't found her little brother and she didn't know where else to look. Maybe at this slick, modern-looking house up ahead in the woods? Or maybe she could at least get a little food there. Some water?

  F-o-o-d was on her mind. No, f-o-o-d was her mind.

  Uh-oh, Spaghettios! She remembered a favorite line from TV. She knew just about everything that had ever been on the tube. Every show, every dumb and dumber commercial, every character in every show. The TV had been her baby-sitter, her mom and her dad, her hundred closest friends at the School.

  Max stopped walking, stopped thinking idle thoughts. She cautiously eyed the house standing up ahead. Careful now. Be ever so careful.

  The house looked dark and quiet and it made her wary and afraid in some deep place inside. A brier thicket grew around it. Oh, please don't throw me in the brier patch.

  She picked her way along the edge of the thicket and up a steep slope toward the modern construction of thick plate glass and rough timber.

  Nobody home, nobody home! Please let there be nobody home. Please, please.

  Let there be F-O-O-D here.

  Her heart thudding, she tiptoed up a wooden flight of stairs and onto the back porch. She peered through sliding glass doors that needed a washing with Spic & Span real bad. She noticed things like that. The genius was in the details, right?

  Forbidden, forbidden, forbidden, she was thinking. Nobody was supposed to see her. Ever. If they did, then they would die, too.

  Max put her fingers to the sealed lips of the glass sliders and pulled.

  Her dula/thumb had been modified into a hand. Her fingers worked fine.

  She had been made that way.

  The doors gave, opened. She was in!

  Trap! she thought, but it was already too late.

  Chapter 19

  IT WASN'T A TRAP, after all. There was nobody waiting inside the house. The owners were obviously stupid
, or really sloppy people, because they left their back door unlocked and unprotected. But no one was there to capture, or maybe even kill her.

  The house was sloppy and disorganized inside. A family definitely lived here, though. She could tell by the mess of kid's stuff. Bikes, in-line skates, video games.

  "Matthew," she whispered. She was hoping against hope that he might have found the same house. Maybe he was hiding in here somewhere.

  "Where are you, bra? It's me. Max!"

  She tiptoed into the kitchen. A refrigerator hummed noisily. A fridge - oh, God, yes. She pulled open the refrigerator door. She basked in the cool air and the frosty light of the bulb. Her eyes hungrily searched the shelves.

  She grabbed a can of soda pop. Sprite. Obey your thirst!

  Okay, I think I will.

  She had a brief guilt trip that stealing food and soda pop was wrong.

  And that it just wasn't a nice thing to do.

  Oh, screw that. I've been shot. I'm being hunted. I need to eat and get some fluids in my body. End of story.

  Max drank, then she began to gorge herself. Flying really made you hungry. It took incredible energy.

  She peeled clingy plastic wrap off a glass bowl. Uh-oh, Spaghettios!

  She pushed cold spaghetti into her mouth. She didn't care if the spaghetti was cold, just so long as it was food. Not good food, not great food, just food - food.

  Got milk? Yippee! There was milk, too. She sniffed - it was okay.

  Barely. She gulped it down right from the carton.

  She found a knife in a pie dish and she used it to hack off a large, sticky chunk of apple pie.

  It was the best pie she'd ever eaten. No contest. No pie-eating contest, she thought. She grinned. She loved wordplay, any kind of play. Pie play, whatever. She was smart -really smarl That was the way they had made her, right.

  Max looked in the freezer for more goodies.

  Ooohh! Ooohh! Look what's in the freezer! Klondike ice cream bars afull box! What would you do for a Klondike bar?

  She ate two Klondike bars, one for each hand. She craved sugar.

  Suddenly, little fingers of apprehension started to walk up the back of her neck. Pinfeathers rose at her nape. She hunched her shoulders and listened.

  Were the hunters out there? Was Uncle Thomas nearby, ready to pounce on her? Maybe he'd take her back - or maybe just put her to sleep.

  She was dying to take a look around the house, though. Curiosity killed the cat, she thought. But not the girl.

  She crept silently down the hall. She couldn't resist this - a real house. Nobody home. What a treat!

  "Creepycat. Kittytoes," she whispered. It was a saying from the School - from when she was little, when she thought little kid thoughts.

  It probably came from Mrs. Beattie, who had been her nanny, then her teacher. Everything good in her life came before Mrs. Beattie died.

  A bathroom was revealed behind a slatted door at the end of the hallway. Gross! Everything was black inside. Black toilet, black tub, black sink, even black soap. She looked longingly at the shower stall, black and glistening behind a clear curtain. She was sticky and dirty everywhere.

  Disgusting! Almost more than sleep she wanted to be clean. She wanted to feel hot water flow onto her body and her hurt wing, just above the second joint. Obviously, the wing wasn't hurt too bad, though. Probably just clipped.

  Max wound her long blond hair back and around her ears and listened hard for any sound in the house.

  There was none. She was sure of it. Her fingers found the light switch.

  Caressed it. Pressed it!

  Light blazed in the black bathroom. Eerie.

  She tensed to run -but that seemed kind of stupid. She was alone here. So she stepped all the way into the bathroom and closed the door.

  Locked it.

  Then she saw herself in the mirror.

  Four foot ten of her, with the most beautiful wings of anyone who had ever lived. Ever, ever, ever.

  She touched her hair. Tilted her face slightly forward.

  "I'm beautiful," she whispered. "I really am, aren't I? I'm a good girl, and I'm pretty. So why are they trying to kill me?"

  Chapter 20

  GILLIAN WAS ON THE PHONE first thing in the morning. "I hate it that you're up in the mountains all alone. Are you all right, Frannie?"

  "I'm fine. What time is it? Where are you?"

  "The hospital, where else. It's eight o'clock. So you slept all right?"

  "Like a baby, Gil."

  "Liar."

  "You know me so well," I said and laughed. I was almost awake now.

  It was beautiful outside my window.

  "And isn't that nice," Gillian said. "For both of us."

  I let her get back to work, and then I had a thought - a bad one. It was this completely irrational but powerful fear that something might happen to Gillian, that maybe all my friends were in some kind of danger.

  I knew it didn't make rational sense. But still, Ifelt it.

  I spent part of the morning driving back to where I'd stopped my car the night before. Where I had, or hadn't, seen - what?

  I was feeling hyper, maybe a bit hung over, and even a little spiritual. It was the hung over part that gave me pause for the most thought, and doubts. Had I been drunk the night before?

  Had Frank Mcdonough's death affected my already bruised psyche?

  The only trouble was that the more I tried to convince myself that I hadn't seen her, the more convinced I was that I had.

  Two speeding trains of thought came to mind.

  Congenital birth defects.

  And the brave new world of biotechnology.

  I had some knowledge of both fields, so I let my mind play as I drove around in my dusty blue Suburban looking for my winged girlfriend from the night before. I thought to myself, let's take a little mind trip down the road of genetic abnormalities, defects, disorders, aberrant syndromes.

  Actually, as I thought about it, I remembered spending an afternoon with David on the very subject. We had even contacted the prestigious Mutter Museum, which is part of the Philadelphia College of Physicians.

  Mutter was happy to supply examples of deformities they'd come across in recent years. They ranged from boys in Mexico with apelike hair all over their bodies to children with duplication of body parts, pituitary abnormalities, as in dwarfs and giants, and skin diseases that made some people resemble lizards more than human beings.

  I don't remember exactly what got David and me on the subject, but we did spend a couple of weekends on it. He also pulled out a book on the subject from his vast collection in storage: Anomalies and Curiosities of Medicine. I thought Anomalies was still around the house somewhere, but I couldn't locate it that morning. Maybe it was back in the cabin along with the modern-day Neanderthal, Kit Harrison.

  As I drove around the Bluff and nearby Clayton, I tried to let my mind run free. I didn't rule out anything yet. I even considered the possibility of extraterrestrial visitors. I finally rejected it, the idea of another E.T but maybe I shouldn't have.

  I have a pretty strong memory. I'd been number one in my high school class, and the files in my head were filled with more information than I had expected. I had actually examined a hermaphrodite, a child having both male and female reproductive organs. I'd also come across humans and animals with missing body parts, and several with duplicate parts. I'd seen two ears on one side of a little girl's skull. A boy with six toes. A girl with four breasts. In vet school I'd also witnessed what toxins and pesticides can do to alter livestock. Not a pretty sight, and not one you ever forget.

  As far as pictures go, I'd seen images of "formed fingers"; that is, hams, on a human head. A parasitic horse body growing from an otherwise perfect one. A second head growing on the head of a calf. From somewhere in the back of my brain came a tidbit from ancient Babylon: An infant born with the face of a lion means the King shall not have a rival. I had once seen a child with the ears of a lion.
>
  But never a very pretty, otherwise normal-looking girl with a pair of beautiful white and silver wings! Maybe she was an extraterrestrial.

  Of course, there was also biotechnology and genetic engineering as a serious area of exploration and mystery. David's chosen field, I reminded myself.

  My memory files in David's specialty area were a little less comprehensive than I would have thought. David and I had been good at sharing most things, but he never liked to talk much about his work.