by Darrell Bain
"Bailey? You awake?"
"Now I am,” he laughed, recognizing Wanda's voice.
"Is your computer on?"
"No, but I can fix that in just a minute. Hold on.” He slid his feet into house shoes and headed to the spare bedroom that he used as an office. As soon as he was inside, he punched the on button of his computer. “Okay, I just turned it on. It sounds like you found something."
"You bet I did! Give me your email address again, just to be sure."
Bailey read it off to her.
"Okay, got it. Boy, what a scumbag. I wish I could tell the FBI how I found out all this stuff about your man."
"As bad as that?"
"Uh huh. I'm going to download a bunch of data for you, and it'll also have links where you can find more. I hope you stick it to him, Bailey. There's no cure for those monsters."
"I'll see what I can do. Thanks, Wanda. This might be enough to prevent a real tragedy. I'll tell you about it someday if I can."
"Great. G'night, Bailey. I'm going to bed. I haven't slept much since I talked to you."
CHAPTER NINE
Bailey only had to look at a small amount of the material Wanda sent him to see that Amber had been right—and that was all he wanted to look at. Sean Casey was indeed a bad man, and there was no possible question he did bad things to little girls, just as Amber had said. He wrote down the links and closed down the computer.
Back in the bedroom, he took out the card with Casey's number on it and dialed. He didn't give a damn what time it was.
It took several rings before Casey's sleepy voice answered.
"Casey, this is Doctor Jones,” Bailey said.
"That's Special Agent Casey, Doctor. Please remember it in the future. Now what in hell do you want?"
"Child molester Casey might be a more appropriate title for. Are you interested now?"
"You're a fool Jones. No one would ever believe what an eight-year-old girls says, especially without proof. It's not true anyway."
Bailey gritted his teeth. He hated confrontations, but the memory of Amber's frightened gaze pushed him on. “I have the proof Casey. Let me read a few links for you and see if any of them jog your memory.” He recited the Internet addresses of Casey's contacts and also the title of the files on Casey's computer that Wanda had somehow hacked into.
For a long moment there was dead silence on the other end of the line. Finally, Casey answered. “What do you want, Jones?"
Bailey had been thinking about it. “First off, you're not to say a damn word to anyone at the hospital about me seeing Pat Morrison on my own time. Not that there's anything wrong with it, but I don't need complications right now."
"I've already talked to the hospital administrator."
"Goddamnit,” Bailey cursed, genuinely angry, which was an emotion he didn't allow often. He turned that scenario over in his mind for a moment, and when Casey added nothing to his remark, decided there was only one thing to do. “Then I suggest you call him back Monday morning and tell him you made a grievous error and that it wasn't me after all."
"What else?"
"Drop this investigation, Casey. There's nothing here that threatens national security. Just drop it and go away."
"Is that all?"
"One more thing. I have someone watching you, and I have copies of the files we downloaded in a safe place. I'd suggest you stick with females nearer to your own age in the future. Clear?"
"I'm not admitting anything, you bastard. What else?"
"That's all. Good night, you pervert.” Bailey hung up the phone. He felt the tremor in his hand and a lightheadedness from talking down the FBI agent. He wished mightily that he could turn the man in to authorities, but it was better to have something to hold over his head. He knew this sort of thing was likely to come up again. With the talents the children were developing, it was inevitable. He eased his conscious somewhat with the knowledge that he had put a stop to Casey's predations, at least for now.
* * * *
Sean Casey raged with hatred, but knew there was little he could do about Jones. Not now. The best he could hope for was that his private habits wouldn't be exposed to the world. An FBI agent wouldn't last any longer than the first venture into the exercise yard at a prison, and if he didn't go there, other means would be found to dispose of him. On the other hand, he knew Jones wasn't about to reveal anything. He would keep quiet in order to preserve his relationship with the Morrison woman and her daughter and in order to keep a hold on him. Damn the man. Damn the little devil bitch. What he wouldn't give to have her in a room alone. He'd show her bad things, but they wouldn't be bad to him. Not at all.
For the rest of the night, Casey remained awake trying to figure out a future course of action. He had the analysis of report cards, showing a clear uptick in grades of the young children. He had records of his interviews with other teachers, Larkin in particular. Those kids were developing peculiar talents. Just look how that little girl pinned him down just by looking at him a couple of times! He had records of the whole investigation on file, including the formula of the chemical the kids had ingested. Someone ought to be able to use his information. It was just a matter of finding the right people.
In the meantime, he intended to toss his computer into a dump somewhere and get rid of all references to the sites and correspondence where he had been involved. There was one other thing he could do, too. Bailey apparently wasn't aware of just how deviously digital data could be manipulated nowadays. It would cost him, but he intended to have all the digital records and photos of the few times he had been recorded in action changed so that it would look like the pictures had been a set up—an attempt to interpose his face with false images. Then, even if Bailey did have downloads, he could at least counter them with some others. It wasn't an elegant solution, but it was the best he could do. He realized now that he had been a fool to ever allow the images to be recorded—and even more of a fool to exchange correspondence with a few selected individuals like himself.
When daylight finally arrived, he decided there was one other person to see before leaving this hick city. Nora Larkin, the shrewish teacher he had talked to before. She had been really cooperative and he wanted to wring the last little bit of information he could out of her before going back to Little Rock. He had no doubt she would speak freely. She disliked the children who had been hospitalized, and like him, suspected there was more to them than met the eye.
* * * *
"But sir, I don't see the problem. You said that FBI agent called back and told you it was a case of mistaken identity. Besides, Ms. Morrison removed Amber from the study before I saw her."
By the time Bailey got the message to report to the hospital administrator's office Monday morning, he had already decided to admit seeing Pat, especially as it appeared she wanted the relationship to continue.
"But you did meet her away from the hospital, didn't you?” Robert Clayton, the hospital administrator asked with raised brows.
"Of course, though as yet it's nothing much. And for all I know she may be seeing someone else besides me. I should point out, though, that we're both single and both adults."
"Well, just be careful, Doctor Jones, Clayton said dubiously. “This is a small city; we have to watch ourselves more closely than we would elsewhere. Now, tell me how the study is going as long as you're here."
"The children are all doing fine, Mister Clayton, and we don't have to worry about the expense this time; the school's insurance company is covering the costs."
"That's good, but I still want to be notified of any unusual developments, Doctor Jones, especially visits from the FBI. We have to cooperate with the government. A lot of our funding comes from them, after all."
"Sad but true,” Bailey commiserated, glad to get off the subject of the children for the time being though he knew there were bound to be more questions raised as they matured.
For the next few minutes, he listened to Clayton's tales of problems running the hospital, mer
ely having to nod and agree with him every minute or two. He was finally dismissed in a cordial air of good fellowship.
Bailey could hardly wait to call Pat, but he decided to postpone it until she had time to get home from school; he remembered a remark she had made about how casual calls disrupted classes and how she routinely turned her cell phone over to vibrate in class. When the time finally came, he was almost bubbling over with the news. As soon as she answered, he began.
"Pat, Casey had reported our, uh, relationship to the administrator, but I got a call from a friend late last night that gave me enough evidence to get him to retract. Oh yes, if anyone asks, you removed Amber from the study. Okay? And—"
Pat laughed. “Whoa! Sounds like we have a lot to talk about. If you're free, why don't you pick up some takeout and come by about six or so and tell me everything? I'll try to have all my papers graded by then."
Bailey didn't have to be asked twice. “What kind of food?"
"Just get some fried chicken. That's always good."
* * * *
The chicken, rolls, and potato salad had been the fare of the evening; the empty paper containers and greasy napkins were proof enough of that, and after dinner, Pat and Bailey were in the den with coffee while Amber drank ice tea. Pat had insisted that Amber be present while Bailey told her of the latest developments, and he had not objected. After going over all he could think of, he wrapped it up with his reasons for changing the records.
"I'm just worried about the kids. If the public knew what was happening with them now, there'd be a media frenzy. I'm also worried about not only the government, but other institutions getting interested in them. I take my real notes directly to a disposable drive and bring it home and store on my own computer. I feel guilty in a way for not entering all the data on their medical records, but I'm more concerned about the safety of the kids than my professional reputation."
"Bailey, I'm just glad it was you and not someone else who caught on to the changes in the kids. We can trust you to do what's right."
"I wish my dad would worry about me,” Amber said forlornly.
Bailey's heart went out to the child. She was caught up in an experience that she really wasn't mature enough to handle, yet she was doing it very well.
"He never visits or calls,” Pat said.
"Well, I guess I could serve as a substitute dad for you Amber, if you want me to. I worry about you, and I care what happens.” Immediately after he had spoken, he lowered his gaze, realizing how that might have sounded, as if he were trying to force himself into the family, but when he looked up, Pat and Amber were both smiling at him. His heart melted again.
Amber came over and sat beside him on the couch. She looked up at him, her brown eyes appearing too big for her face. She took his hand and twisted her two little ones around it. “You would be a good daddy,” she said gravely. “I can tell. And I won't let nobody know ‘bout us."
Bailey felt tears gathering and brushed at his eyes. He didn't know exactly what lay in the future, but he knew with almost absolute certainty that trouble lay down the road, and he knew he would do all he could to protect this young girl. And her mother. And the other children. Amber nodded her head in agreement with his unspoken intentions and suddenly hugged him.
Once Amber was in bed and asleep, talk trailed off, and the invitation in Pat's eyes and mannerisms became so obvious that even Bailey couldn't mistake it. He took her in his arms. They kissed a long time. He stroked her back and the indentation of her waist, and, eventually, his hand strayed to her breast. Pat finally broke the embrace and said breathlessly “Bailey, please, let's go to bed."
Bailey let her lead him to the bedroom where she kissed him again.
"Get in bed. I'll be back in a minute,” Pat said. She disappeared into the bathroom.
A few minutes later, she slid under the covers and snuggled up next to him, her body soft and sensuous beneath the flimsy covering of her negligee. Before long, even that ceased to be a barrier.
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER TEN
Amber realized she was pretty and that was part of the problem. She was several months short of her thirteenth birthday, but it was already apparent that she would be somewhat taller than her mother. It was also obvious that she had inherited the genes that would give her a figure like her mother, slim and nicely curved with generous breasts. Already her breasts were larger than all but a very few of the other girls her age, and that presented problems, too. Because of her gift, she could tell how nearly all the boys wanted to have sex with her, but the intentions of many of them were very vague about details. Others had more definite ideas, and it was those she disliked. Their intentions were crudely sexual and not much else.
Amber tried to remember her mother's advice. Interest in sex was a natural part of growing up, but despite all the talks with Mom and Bailey about how her “talent” worked, she still hadn't realized how easily she would be able to perceive the lustful yearning of boys. Even a couple of girls had looked at her that way, much to her surprise. She realized she hadn't been prepared for the whole experience, the shift from primary to middle school where some of the boys were two years older, experienced, and had very definite ideas about what they wanted. The subject was almost always on her mind and had begun to affect her studies. Her grades, once perfect, had begun to slip a little. She knew other girls in “the group,” the same ones who had been in the first three grades of primary school when the terror attack happened, were having problems, too. She had been in the second then, what seemed like an eternity ago from the lofty vantage point of a sixth grader.
There was also a great divide between the students who had grown up in town and those who had transferred in after the attack. The new ones couldn't compete. They couldn't know what teachers intended to ask on quizzes and tests; they giggled over boys and didn't know, like the girls of the group did, how blatantly sexual their thoughts were, which girls they were interested in, and what they thought about individual girls. Amber thought of those classmates as almost like members of a separate species, unaware of all the innuendo, intentions, and deviousness that went on right in front of their eyes. It made her sad, too, and she felt sorry for them. On the other hand, some days she thought wistfully that it would be nice if she didn't know quite so much.
Even Jimmy who still lived next door, sweet and caring as he was, couldn't avoid thinking of her as a girl, an object of desire. Not always, but sometimes. He liked other things about her though, and that made it better. She smiled to herself, thinking of the few times they had kissed. If she ever decided to have sex, she thought it might be with him. At least they were the same type of people, though Jimmy's father wasn't as understanding as Bailey was, nor was his mother. To be fair though, she didn't think anyone could be as nice as Mom and Bailey. They never lied to her or tried to avoid sensitive subjects like sex and how some of the teachers didn't like them. Bailey was almost like a father; in fact, he was far better than some fathers the other kids told her about.
The teachers were getting to be a real problem, especially for her, Jimmy and Jeannie. The three of them had begun to realize this year that they were more perceptive than others of the group—sometimes much more perceptive, and they didn't know why. Even the change in schools hadn't helped much because the primary school teachers put everything on their records, which followed them when they graduated. Mrs. Larkin was the worst. Amber could still practically feel the dislike the teacher held for them overflowing her mind when they were in her class or passing her in the hall. She translated her thoughts into action, too, speaking negatively about them to other teachers. She had taught the group only three years until the first graders passed on to the fourth grade. That was enough, though, and unfortunately, she had accepted a transfer to middle school and was teaching a Language Arts class. Already, she was grading her former third graders with a heavy hand, especially in composition. She must be talking about them, too. Amber had caught the same attitudes that
Mrs. Larkin held in some of her other teachers. They looked at her and the others like her as if they were active cheaters and had to be watched constantly.
Amber sighed and blinked as the final period bell rang. As she gathered her computer and other materials, she decided to ask Mom and Bailey what to do. It wasn't like she or the others could turn their ability on and off like a light bulb. It was just there, like vision and hearing, and now she and Jimmy and Jeannie were even beginning to feel a little different from the rest of the group in a manner she wasn't quite sure of yet. She remembered a few days before when one of the girls who hadn't been around for the terror attack asked her point blank if she could read minds. Amber had laughed as if it was a big joke and said of course not; if she could read minds, she would know whether or not Henry Keller, that cute eighth grader, was interested in her. After that, she changed the subject as Bailey and Mom suggested she do when questions like that came up. She didn't mention that she knew Henry was more than interested or that she wasn't. He had been in the fourth grade when the attack occurred and showed some of the younger one's abilities but not enough to make him a part of their group. Besides, he might be good looking on the surface, but inside he was gross. The thing was that she and Jimmy and Jeannie knew more about Henry than the others of their group, but she didn't know why that should be.
There was something else she had noticed that she didn't like. Some of the other kids of the group, especially the boys, were beginning to act brazenly with their ability to sense intentions and attitudes. They were taking advantage of girls, excelling in contact sports, even as sixth graders because they could judge intentions, cheating in class by watching nearby students’ attitudes. A few had even learned they could commit larceny with near impunity. Even when caught, they could tell almost exactly what the authorities knew and didn't know, what they intended to ask, and when they what kind of answers they would be satisfied with. The ability allowed them to wiggle out of almost any accusation. Even worse was one boy who had begun to peddle stolen prescription drugs. He knew he wouldn't have to worry about undercover policemen around the school; he would know them almost immediately and not do business around them.