“How am I supposed to help her if you won’t tell me what to do?”
“See the keys?”
He saw a set of keys laying in a clump on the other side of the desk. Yes. I see them.
“You will have to be quick.”
To do what?
“Grab them.”
Why would I...
“GO!” said a voice that sounded like an old man.
The command caused him to stand, but he didn’t go for the keys. Someone will see me! he thought, frantically, as he twisted around to see if anyone was looking.
“Quickly!” said a female voice.
There was an officer four desks away, but he had turned his back. In the corner, two men stood talking, and a female officer was exiting out a side door. This was crazy! There were officers everywhere!
“Trust us,” said a soothing female voice.
Jon pushed his fear into his belly, reached out and snatched the keys, and sank back into his chair, all in one motion. His heart was racing.
“Stay calm. You’re safe,” said another voice.
All he could think about was the processing officer returning and finding his keys missing. What about the officer, where is he?
“Badger, badger, two can play,” said a crackly, southern voice.
His body jolted. Seriously! Can we stay focused here?
“Silver and round. Flip the keys. Silver and round.”
He flipped the keys until the voices said, “Stop!”
The key, pinched between his finger and thumb, was round and silver.
“Get ready.”
For what? What’s going on?
“When they are distracted, be ready.”
What are you talking...
“Now!” said a firm voice. “In the desk drawer. Grab it!”
Jon rose to his feet, but froze again. The back of the room was now clear, but there were dozens of officers toward the front. Then a loud noise erupted from outside, and every last officer went to the front doors to see what had caused it.
Jon walked backwards around the desk, keeping his eyes on the commotion, and crouched down in front of the desk drawer.
“Bottom drawer, quick!” said the voices.
There was no time for indecision. He obeyed without dissension. He slid the key in and twisted. Inside the drawer was a mess of things. On top of the mess was a handgun in a holster.
“Grab it. Keep it low. Take it. Keep it low,” they said.
Are you kidding me? I’m in a police station!
“You need it. Take it!” He sensed the urgency in the voices. It was deeper than inflection or tone. He felt the concern they had; they were worried about him.
He snatched it from the drawer, closed the drawer and locked it, and put the keys back on the desk. Across the room an officer started to turn toward him. His body shivered, but he forced himself to stand slowly and move casually back toward his seat, keeping the gun low and behind his leg.
“You are safe. Hide it. Keep it,” they said.
He turned, pulled his shirt up, and stuffed the small holstered gun into his pants. The metal clamp on the back of the holster was cold against his skin—and it seemed like every eye in the station had turned back toward him. It took every ounce of courage he had to sit calmly, but he managed.
There was no shout of alarm, no rushing of feet. His actions had gone unnoticed, just as the voices had promised. But why did he need a gun? Was his life in danger? Were Elliot’s people inside the police station? Were they outside waiting to gun him down, like they did to Pete?
He put his arms in his lap, pressed his forearm against the hidden weapon, and sat, motionless. Listening. Watching. Ready to pull the weapon out when commanded. Ready to defend himself if an attack came. But it did not come, and slowly his body allowed itself to loosen.
“Okay,” said a voice behind him. His ribs jumped.
“Sorry about that,” the officer said, taking his seat at his desk and shuffling the papers in front of him.
Jon resisted the urge to look at the keys. They were clumped differently and no longer in the same spot the officer had left them. Would he notice? Would he check the drawer?
“You’re safe,” said the voices.
The officer’s eyes flicked up. “Are you nervous?”
“What?” said Jon with a jilt. “No. Why?”
“I was called away by the captain because he thought you might be nervous.”
“About what?”
“He read your statement and he is concerned for you.”
Jon tried to unravel the officer’s words, but his head was spinning with questions—and he felt like he might throw up.
“You said you believe your father was provoked into killing his girlfriend. Is that correct?”
Now it made sense. With Pete dead, it seemed unnecessary to hide what Elliot James and his people had done. Though he didn’t mention Elliot by name, he had told them all about his conversation with Pete and the money he had been given to lie to his father. This was about that.
“Yes. That’s what I was told, by Pete.”
“You said you thought someone was chasing you?”
“I did.”
The officer wrote something down and nodded his head. Then looked up. “Do you believe they are still chasing you?”
His mind whispered. “Yes.”
“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. “I do believe they are.”
“Who do you believe is chasing you?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Dangerous people.” A memory flashed; he heard the gun blast and saw the reactions on the faces at the 7-Eleven. “Dangerous people, capable of killing someone in a public place.”
The officer wrote something else, then set his pen down and looked up. “The captain believes the threat against you might be credible, but we don’t have enough to put you in protective custody. He asked me to advise you on this matter so that you would be as safe as possible.”
Jon swallowed. “Okay.”
“He feels it would be safer for you if you were to slip out the parking garage discreetly, rather than leave out the front. We could call you a cab.”
It sounded like a good idea, but what about the Porsche? What about the money?
“I don’t think...” he started.
“Are you worried about the car?”
Jon groaned inside. There was no end to all the ways they could find reason to slap cuffs on him and throw him in a cell.
The officer gave an examining look. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. It’s just a lot to process, you know?”
“We ran the plates on that car and made a call to the owner.”
Jon’s gut rolled. This was it, the thread that would unravel the tapestry.
“If I was just given a Porsche, I’d feel the same way.”
Wait, what? Why on earth had the owner of the car said he gave it to him? Jon stopped the impulse rushing to reveal his surprise in all the creases of his face.
“It won’t be long. We’ll tag it so it doesn’t get towed, and you can pick it up tomorrow or the day after, whenever you feel it’s safe.” All Jon could do was nod as the officer smiled and looked back down at his paperwork. “All right. Just one more question. Do you want to see your father before we send him to county lockup?”
Even if he didn’t have the officer’s pistol stuffed in his pants, he wouldn’t have wanted to see his father. He had no desire to hear his lies, or to fend off the attempts to apologize for his weakness. Whatever ties, or whatever obligation he had felt toward him, were now buried in a tomb of his father’s own making. As far as he was concerned, his father was dead.
He shook his head. “No, sir. I don’t want to see him.”
“Okay then. I’ll file this, and we’ll call you a cab.”
Immediately, Jon’s mind went to the money in the briefcase. He couldn’t leave it sitting there in the Porsche. He had to get it. He had to hide it. But what about Elliot’s
people?
“They won’t hurt you,” said a warm voice.
“Get it and go out the back,” said a sultry woman’s voice.
“Sir?” he said, lifting a hand.
The officer stopped shuffling papers.
“Can I grab something from the car first?”
His brows scrunched together for a moment, then loosened. “I’m sure you’ll be safe in front of the station. I don’t see why not.” He scooped up his papers and stuffed them in a folder. “Come on. Let’s get you signed out.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“Me?” said David. He found it hard to believe that the FBI would want to hear what he had to bring to the table.
“Yes. We have several possible leads, and you could help us isolate our search.”
“The federal government wants to know what the messages have to say about all this?”
“Yes. We’ll give you whatever you need.”
“I don’t get it. Three months ago you didn’t trust a word that came out of my mouth, now you’re believers?”
“David, please understand, our people here on the ground don’t have all the information, most of the evidence surrounding this case is classified. But my superiors in D.C. never doubted you, that’s why they sent me, right now, they’re convinced that you could be the key to averting this crisis.”
David’s eyes flared. “I don’t even know what the crisis is! The last thing I knew we were chasing down evidence in a domestic violence case, but now the FBI is facing off against God only-knows-what inside that police station, and now you tell us something is controlling people’s minds and controlling Jon Blake who is being herded toward some evil outcome.” David took a breath. “It’s a little overwhelming and quite frankly hard to believe!”
Agent Collins held his hands up in defense. “Look, this is what you need to understand. Last year, Congress passed a bill to prevent the research of a compound called X11 because of its highly controversial use of stem cells. We have several cases that directly tie these encounters of mind control to the creation of that legislation, including the death threat on the president last fall.”
“What?” David shook his head. “All this is connected?”
“Yes. The president survived the attack, but then lost the election. And now our new president has reversed all the previous rulings on stem cell research, so X11 is back on the research table with more funding than it had before. That means the enemy won that round. See, the team working on the research for X11 is headed by Dr. Kathleen Peltz, who I mentioned before. Their main facility is on the outskirts of Boston. The increase of these unexplained incidents in the Greater Boston Area leads us to believe that the enemy has shifted from a national agenda to a focused exploitation of this facility.”
“Exploitation? How? And what’s X11, some kind of virus?”
“No, a super virus, or at least it will be.”
David had a vision of hazmat suits and city-wide riots.
“As with every scientific breakthrough, this virus can be used for good or for evil. Dr. Peltz and her team claim they are working on a cure for AIDS and they have considerable backing from Washington. But our enemy would like to see X11 used for more destructive ends.”
“What are we talking about here,” said Karen, moving to the front of her seat, “some kind of biological weapon?”
“Yes. In the form they are hoping to get it to, it will be easily weaponized. We believe someone on Peltz’s team has been compromised...”
David felt a buzz in his pocket. He dug his phone out and looked at the caller ID.
Karen’s face scrunched. “Seriously, David?”
“It’s my wife,” he said, flipping it open.
Karen’s head rotated, and she gave Collins an incredulous look.
David didn’t bother with his usual greeting but leaped straight to the point of the matter. “Hi, honey. I’m in the middle of something, is this important?”
“Not terribly,” she stammered. “I just need you to know that I got a ride home and you don’t need to pick me up.” The sound of her voice brought comfort to his soul, but the expectant look on Collins and Karen robbed him of its full effect.
“That’s great. All right, I have to let you go.”
“Will you be home for dinner?”
“I’m not sure.”
“It’s taco night.”
“That’s my favorite night.”
“I hope they’re not making you jump through a bunch of hoops.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Call me if you’re going to be late, okay?”
“I will, sweetheart. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Okay. Gotta go.”
“Call me.”
“I will. Bye.”
He flipped the phone closed and gave a sheepish look.
Karen’s face lightened. “Only you would take a domestic phone call in the middle of a debriefing on a global, biological threat.”
“Not quite global,” corrected Collins. “At least, not yet. But they’re getting close.”
“Sorry,” said David, shoving the phone back into his pocket. “Life doesn’t stop for an almost-global, biological threat.”
“And,” said Collins, “as I was saying, we believe that someone within Dr. Peltz’s team has been...” He stopped mid-sentence and held his hand up. A dark quiet filled the compartment. From his earbud a tiny indistinguishable tin voice could be heard. “Jon is on the move,” said Collins, looking out the window.
David looked out and saw Jon Blake bobbing down the stairs in the direction of the Porsche, his eyes scanning the street and his expression revealing his curiosity at the line of black SUVs. It was hard to imagine that all of these trained, government agents were focused on this unassuming young man.
But it wasn’t him they were interested in, was it?
He was just a pawn—a rat in a maze—leading them to the cheese. Did they know about his ability to see messages, or were they watching the sea of faces around him, waiting for the slightest hint of suspicious activity? It had to be maddening, not knowing who was being influenced. Even knowing, the challenge of dealing with someone infected had to be a slippery slope. One couldn’t simply arrest the captain of a police station without evidence or motive. And how do you lock down a motive with something like this?
He looked at Collins in a new light. This was a man under tremendous pressure, yet his face appeared placid. Was it a mask placed there with self-determination and training or was he truly at peace in the midst of this storm?
“No,” said Collins, “let him go. Let’s see where he takes us.”
David looked back out and spoke low against the surface of the glass. “May I ask a question?”
Collins kept his eyes on Jon. “Of course.”
“Are you aware that Jon is receiving messages like I do?”
“We were not certain, but we had a hunch.”
“So why do you need me?”
“Because whoever is sending messages to you is clearly on our side,” he said, bluntly.
David pulled away from the window as a ripple of shock washed over him. “Are you saying Jon is receiving messages from...” He didn’t want to finish the question.
“From-?” Collins said, still focused on Jon.
“The devil?”
Collins glanced at him, and then back out the window. “I thought we established that we would refrain from conjecture like that and stick to the facts.”
“Well, the fact is, I’m getting messages from God, and...”
“No,” said Collins, pulling away from the window. “The fact is: you’re getting messages. And whoever is sending them to you wants to stop this crisis from happening, and that makes them our friend. Is it necessary to get into semantics about where the messages are coming from? We have a young man here who drove to the police station in a Porsche with a suitcase full of hundred dollar bills, and at least three people in one degr
ee of separation have shown signs of possession. That places Jon at the center of this investigation and makes him highly suspect. You, on the other hand, have no incidents of influence and a track record for being in the right place at the right time. That is something we need. It seems less-than-productive to engage in conjecture on the origin of things we cannot possibly know.”
His words weren’t harsh or pointed, simply truthful, and David was satisfied with that. They didn’t have to agree on the origin of the messages. What mattered was that they shared a common goal, to keep the people of Massachusetts safe. He still didn’t fully understand the nature of the threat, but he felt confident of one thing; he could trust Collins.
“Just watch him,” said Collins. “Don’t take him yet.” His eyes lifted to David’s. “Jon has the case and is heading back inside.”
David watched as the young man ascended the steps with the briefcase in hand. He paused halfway up and looked over his shoulder. For the briefest of moments, it looked like he knew they were watching him. A smile formed, and his chin rose slightly, as though he was acknowledging their presence. Then he turned and continued on into the station.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Take a right, here,” said Jon.
“I thought you wanted to go to Cambridge Street?” said the Cabbie over his shoulder.
“I changed my mind. Turn right, here, please.”
The cab shifted lanes, and Jon watched apprehensively out the window.
The driver’s eyes studied him in the rear-view mirror. “Where are we going?” he said.
“The other side of town,” said Jon, sliding a hundred dollar bill over the seat. “That won’t be a problem, will it?”
“For a hundred bucks I’ll help you hide a body!” said the man with a strong Mass accent.
After several minutes the cab passed by the cemetery where Jon had dug up the bank box, and another minute found them on the street parallel to Canary’s. He didn’t want to chance going directly to her house; it was too dangerous.
He looked down at the briefcase in his lap and regretted leaving his iPad behind. The voices had assured him that he wouldn’t need it, but it still felt weird not having it.
“I need you to wait here,” he said, slipping another hundred over the seat. “Can you do that?”
VOICES: Book 2 in the David Chance series (Suspense, Mystery, Thriller) Page 18