Mr. And Miss Anonymous

by Fern Michaels

  Winston yipped as he raced to the open door. He yipped again as Zolly filled the doorway. “Zip, boss. The place was cleaned out. I even checked the air vents. What do you have here?”

  Pete told him.

  “Jesus, boss, what the hell did you get yourself mixed up in?”

  “I wish I knew, Zolly.”

  Suddenly the fur on the back of Winston’s neck stood on end. He growled deep in his throat at the same moment the box in Zolly’s hand emitted a high-pitched, keening sound.

  “Out! Out! Move, boss! NOW!”

  Zolly led the charge down the hallway, Winston racing ahead of him. “Move, boss! They’re onto us. The hypersonic alarm went off. No one but Winston heard it. Head for the car! Goddamn it, will you two move! My grandmother can run faster than the two of you.”

  Zolly slammed through the open front door. Off in the distance, the wail of a siren could be heard. Flashing lights could be seen through the heavy rain. Even a dummy would know it was a parade of police cars the way the sky was lighting up.

  As one, the foursome tumbled into the SUV. Zolly turned on the ignition but not the headlights. They were moving, and that’s all Lily cared about. She hugged Winston, who was busy trying to snuggle with both her and Pete at the same time.

  “You okay, boss? Ma’am?”

  “Hell, no, Zolly. What went wrong?”

  “Look, boss, I’m a security guard. This is my first time at breaking and entering. I think I did okay considering it was my maiden voyage into the underbelly of whatever the hell you got yourself involved in. I don’t know what went wrong. If you want me to guess, I’d say there’s a thirty-minute delay for whoever enters either the clinic or the sperm bank to call in to the alarm company. That’s a guess, okay? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. We got away, didn’t we? Now, where do you want to go? The night’s still young. We could take on a bank, maybe a convenience store? Your call, boss.”

  “You’re a wiseass, Zolly. Take us home. We need to fall back and regroup.”

  “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said in days,” Zolly growled.

  Pete ignored him. “You know what we need, Zolly? We need a police scanner so you can listen in and figure out what they’re doing if anything. Can you get one for the FBI, too?”

  “Sure, boss. You name it and I’ll put it on my shopping list. You want a couple of Uzis, maybe a rocket launcher?”

  “Like I said, you’re a wiseass, Zolly.”

  Pete was so deep in thought on the ride back to the villa, Lily had to poke him in the arm to get him to move when Zolly brought the SUV to a stop.

  Outside in the walled garden, Lily ordered a room service dinner for the two of them and two chopped steaks for Winston, along with a plate of vegetables. Winston was partial to carrots and green beans, or so Pete said.

  “What are your thoughts, Pete? I know something is twirling around inside that head of yours.”

  Pete looked around the peaceful garden with its ground lighting. It was all so perfect, so serene, so surreal, unlike his emotions, which were all over the place. “I am worried about that kid. I’m trying to put myself in his place. What would I do? What would be my next move? He’s taking on the world, and he can’t possibly be equipped for that kind of fight. Knowing someone is out to kill you either has to put an edge on you or take off your edge, assuming he even has an edge. At this point I’m not even sure what I’m talking about. Maybe I can put Marty Bronson on the dean of that school, and if Marty can get us an address, we can go and talk to him.”

  “Don’t you think that either his employers, whoever they might be, have him in a safe place or he’s gone to ground? It sounds good, but I think it’s going to turn into another dead end.”

  Pete nodded, knowing she was right. “If you were the boy’s age, where would you go, Lily?”

  “As far away from the scene as I could get. Kids his age hitchhike all the time. Seventeen-year-old kids are fearless, you know that.”

  “He’s had a couple of days to get out of town, but he’s still here. There has to be a damn good reason why he didn’t split this scene. He’s trying to do something. He goes to the library, and I’m thinking he was trying to do something on the computer. Obviously, that avenue failed. We saw him, that other guy saw him, too, so now he’s running. Again. What’s left for him? I think he’s scared, but he isn’t panicking. That’s a good thing. It means he’s thinking logically. I think he’s looking for someone to trust.”

  “Okay, standing in his shoes, what would you do, Pete?”

  Pete’s clenched fist slammed down on the glass-topped table. “Me? I’d go back to the place where it all started. Think about it, Lily. The school is closed down. At best a skeleton force for security is in place now that it’s no longer under control of the authorities. I bet that kid knows the school, the grounds, everything, like the back of his hand. Kids always sneak away after lights-out. Tell a kid he can’t do something, and he’ll find a way to make sure he does it. Pranks, whatever. He would know how to get in, out, to hide. There’s food there. His bed is there, his clothes. That school represents the only security he’s ever known. It’s his home. If he’s as smart as I think he is, no one will even know he’s there.

  “The big question is, what is he trying to accomplish? Does he have information? Does he know or suspect that something was going on? If we take the fertility clinic and all we saw there and extend it to the school…maybe…oh, hell, I don’t know. My brain is like a beehive,” Pete groused.

  Lily leaned across the table to reach for Pete’s hand. “No, no, don’t stop now. I think you’re onto something. Go back to the clinic, the operating room, the lab, all those labor rooms. Where did those kids go after they were born? Maybe there’s more than one school like the California Academy for Higher Learning. Remember all those clocks on the wall? Maybe the other schools are in different countries.

  “Oh, God, Pete! Maybe…maybe the babies born there were guinea pigs for some kind of…experiment? Think about Jesse. Maybe he was a result of an experiment gone wrong. Maybe some of the kids weathered it, and some didn’t.”

  Pete stood up. He smacked his clenched right fist into the palm of his left hand as he started to pace. “And the massacre…why?”

  Lily was on her feet, too. “Run with it, Pete. The experiment is over… Someone found out…They tracked the experiment for what…seventeen-plus years, and they no longer need the kids? So they get rid of them.”

  “What about all the other kids, the ones who went on the field trip that day? It’s not computing.”

  “Yes, it is, Pete. Remember the clocks. They moved the kids. The other kids weren’t the same age as Josh and Jesse. That means their monitoring time isn’t up yet.

  “Think in time increments. Maybe testing didn’t start until the babies were older, say two or three years of age. Maybe it was a fifteen-year study. The oldest boys at the academy were seventeen. If you do the math, it would be a fifteen-year study. Am I crazy, or does this make sense to you?”

  Lily was suddenly flying through the air as Pete picked her up and twirled her around. “I think that’s it. I think you hit it right on the button. God, I love you!”

  “You do!” Lily was back on the ground again, her head whirling.

  “You know what, I do. I do, Lily. I fell in love with you all over again when I saw you at the airport in Atlanta. I wanted to tell you a dozen times but this…life…all of this,” he said, waving his arms about, “just got in the way. Oh, my God, I’m in love. Tell me you love me. You aren’t going to break my heart, are you, Lily?”

  Lily could hardly believe her ears. Pete loved her. “Depends on what you have going for you. It’s a joke, Pete. Yes, yes, yes, I love you, and, no, I am not going to break your heart. You better not break mine either. How did this happen, Pete? It was all so many years ago, yet here we are. It’s all pretty damn amazing.”

  “Tell me about it. No, don’t waste time telling me about it.” He
was kissing her then as he again twirled her around and around and around.

  Winston barked as he raced to the doorway.

  “Excuse me, where would you like me to set out your dinner?” asked the waiter.

  “Anywhere,” Pete mumbled as he broke for air, then continued kissing Lily.

  “I’m not hungry, are you?” Pete asked.

  “Only for you.”

  Winston tilted his head to one side, then the other. He finally figured out he was going to have to serve himself when Pete and Lily danced their way into the villa, leaving him behind. He hopped up onto one of the chairs, nosed the lids off the plates, checked it all out, then ate his dinner. He jumped off the chair, made the rounds of the small garden. He eyed the table again, then got back on the chair to eat his master’s dessert, coconut cream pie. He very carefully nudged all the silver domes back onto the plates before making his way to the doorway. He lay down, his huge body filling the entire doorway. He didn’t sleep. He was, after all, a guard dog.

  Chapter 12

  He felt drunk, so he must be drunk. Shuffling along outside the oyster bar where he’d shucked and consumed three dozen oysters along with three pints of ale, the soccer player weaved his way among the parked cars in the lot to the newly stolen BMW he’d arrived in. He looked at himself in the rearview mirror. He didn’t look drunk, so his earlier opinion had to be wrong, and he wasn’t drunk. Even if he was drunk, which he wasn’t, he deserved to tie one on, what with all he’d been through this past week. He felt pleased with his mental assessment.

  This was the hard part, making a decision he could live with. Days ago he had convinced himself if he killed a bunch of kids, he could live and deal with anything. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Taking on the software giant even for five million dollars was a tad out of his league. In time, with a plan in place, he might be able to pull it off. This catch-as-catch-can project wasn’t something he really wanted to think about. Still, the lure of five million dollars was tremendously powerful.

  The kids, now that was something else. He’d had a plan. A good plan. He’d made numerous trips, a dozen to be exact, to the academy. Once he went as an electrician with the proper credentials and disguise. The second time he’d gone as a cook with an armful of recipe books, since the school prided itself on good, nourishing food that didn’t taste like institutional glop. Like he really knew the difference between ground chuck and ground sirloin. The third time he went to the school, he was a gardener looking for a job. That was an all-day visit so he could tramp the grounds to see what was what. On either his fourth or fifth visit he turned into an exterminator so he could inspect every inch of the fifty-five-thousand-square-foot building as well as all of the outer buildings. A schematic of the building that had been left behind in the basement proved to be invaluable. For the life of him he couldn’t remember what he did on the other visits except for the last one, where he was a traveling missionary complete with black suit, a clerical collar he’d put on for effect, and a full-grown beard. In that guise he met the class he was to exterminate.

  No way would he get away with a plan like that if he agreed to take on the software giant. He vaguely remembered seeing sound bites on TV about how Kelly traveled with heavy-duty security and a killer dog. Exactly what you’d expect for someone of his wealth and stature.

  The soccer player, whose name was Diesel Morgan, turned the key in the ignition. The powerful engine kicked to life. He was on the highway in less than a minute, heading toward the motel he’d been staying at for the past few days.

  The special cell phone in his pocket chirped. Morgan had a hard-and-fast rule that he never answered his phone after midnight. No matter who it was. After midnight was when he did his best thinking. After midnight was when his mind, for some strange reason, clicked into high gear. If his routine and habits didn’t work for other people, that was their problem.

  The best things that could be said for his motel room were that it was clean and there were lots of thick towels in the bathroom, which was just as clean as the bedroom. The staff wasn’t interested in minding his business, which was fine with him.

  Morgan stripped down and headed for the shower. He stood under the hot water until it turned cool. He toweled off, pulled on a pair of boxers, and climbed in bed. He shoved the three foam pillows behind his back, turned on the TV, and let his mental gears run freely. While his mind raced, his index finger was flipping the channels to the twenty-four-hour news stations. After five minutes of watching the chaos in the world, he decided everything was going to hell. One small sound bite at the end of the local news was that the investigation on the school shooting was ongoing and leads were being followed. To Morgan that meant the authorities had squat, and he was treading on safe ground.

  Where in the hell was that damn kid? He had to take care of him before he could even think about Kelly and the five million dollars. Loose ends could be fatal to someone in his position. Not to mention his employer.

  Morgan fired up a cigarette even though he was in a nonsmoking room. Cigarettes helped him think, and it was the only time he smoked. As he puffed and blew smoke rings, he gave his mind free rein. What exactly did the kid know? How did the feebs capture the boy who had drawn his picture? How did the other one get away? Were the feebs looking for the boy to pin the shooting on him, or were they looking for him to keep him safe? Any other times the media had coverage of something like this nonstop, wall-to-wall, hashing and rehashing twenty-four/seven. Was the kid hitchhiking somewhere? If so, where was he headed? Washington, D.C.? Los Angeles? New York? Or was he staying local because it was familiar to him?

  The kid had used the library, or tried to. What was he looking for at a library? Maybe that was where he hid out during the day. He’d simply blend in with all the other kids, and no one would give him a second thought or look. Where did he spend his nights?

  Morgan lit a second cigarette. What would he do if he was that kid? Where would he go? If I was him, what would I be looking for? Proof? Proof of what? “Crap!” he snarled to the empty room. He was going about this all wrong. Maybe this isn’t about me at all, maybe the kid is looking for proof about what went on at the school because something sure as hell was going on to warrant a total wipeout of the class.

  “Shit!” That’s where I’m going wrong! I never asked the why of the shooting. What would make someone order a killing like that? Maybe that’s what the kid is looking for, the why of it. Smart kid.

  A third cigarette found its way to Morgan’s lips. He fired it up. He knew he was onto something. Keep puffing, keep thinking, he told himself. He patted the minirecorder on his wrist, which he was never without. Insurance.

  A little while later the room was so cloudy with smoke, Morgan got up and opened the door to the balcony. The smoke poured outward. He lounged in the doorway, a fourth cigarette between his lips. Why? Why?

  If I were that kid, where the hell would I go? Get in his head, Diesel. Think like the kid, Diesel. Where are the answers he’s looking for?

  Morgan put out his cigarette and tossed it over the balcony. He was grinning from ear to ear. “Hell’s bells, I’d go back to where I think I might find the answers. Oh, yeah,” he drawled as he backed into his room and shut the door. He quickly packed his travel gear, dressed, and left the motel. He was paid up for another day, but he could afford to lose eighty-nine bucks.

  Morgan drove for an hour until he turned into a middle-income housing development. He knew his neighbors slightly, saying hello from time to time. He paid someone to maintain his yard and the garden in the back. His MO there in the development was that he was a traveling salesman and was gone three weeks out of every month, oftentimes going to Europe for months at a time. It was a mind-your-own-business kind of neighborhood of fifty-to sixty-year-olds who still worked during the day. The only times he’d ever seen kids around there were when someone had their grandchildren for a few hours on a weekend. He didn’t even have to worry about mail because when he did get mail
it was slipped through the slot on the front door. He paid a year ahead on his utilities. The outside light and a lamp in the living room were on timers. At a local bank he maintained a three-thousand-dollar checking account and had seven thousand in a passbook savings account. A respectable absent member of the community. The name he used at that address was Daniel Marley. He had the same kind of house and arrangement in six other parts of the country. It all worked for him.

  Morgan let himself into his house. He hated the musty, closed-up smell, but there was nothing he could do about it. He turned on all the lights as he walked from room to room to see if anything had changed from his last visit. He always set little traps, a thread here, a speck of paper, a dropped paper clip. Satisfied that everything was exactly the way it was three months ago, he made his way to the basement.

  Morgan moved a battered dresser to the side and leaned down to open the floor safe, from which he removed his semiautomatic weapon, two clips, and a battered canvas bag full of various disguises. He fished around in the dark for an oilskin pouch that held dozens of different driver’s licenses and passports. He pondered each of them before he came up with the one that he wanted: FBI Special Agent Lionel Lewis, D.C. Bureau. Underneath the name it read, “Group Leader of Special Task Force.” Complete with Major Attitude. Morgan flipped open the authentic gold shield and polished it. It certainly did pay to have friends in high places.

  The last item to be carried out his front door was a garment bag with everything he needed to make him look like a real agent. Almost like Halloween, his favorite time of year.

  All he needed to do was lock up the house, ditch the BMW, and heist a new set of wheels more appropriate to his self-created status. A Range Rover, maybe, or one of those Porsche Cayennes, although there was every possibility he might have to settle for a Jeep if the pickings were bad.