Gemini Cell: A Shadow Ops Novel (Shadow Ops series Book 4) (18 page)

When Schweitzer at last was able to focus on seeing the world outside their body again, he noted the wide peripheral vision he always slipped into when on an op was still in place, giving him a view of the guard and her attacker, gaping in shock, no doubt processing the thought that the flamethrower would have incinerated them just as easily as it would have the monster that crouched before them, that Mr. Flamethrower wouldn’t have hesitated for a moment.

The silence stretched, all motionless in the long space, no sound save the soft clicking of the spinning lights as they continued their silent, orange-hued warning across the white walls. Eldredge took a cautious step closer. Schweitzer could smell his fear, different from the others around him, but fear nonetheless.

The guard and the man with her both began to speak at once, but Eldredge silenced them with a wave, squatted down on his haunches. Schweitzer could see the shimmering silver candle tips of his own eyes reflected back at him in the deep brown of Eldredge’s. “What happened?”

Ninip stirred, looked at the flamethrower at the low ready, pilot light still burning, and thought better of it. Schweitzer tested his control over their shared body, found Ninip was letting him drive. He sat them back slowly, keeping their clawed hands well clear. He did his best effort at jerking a thumb over their shoulder, painfully aware of the bone spike making the motion menacing. “Fight.”

Eldredge looked up now, taking in the woman’s battered face, the scratches on the man’s forearms. “I see.”

Schweitzer stood their shared body up, careless now of how the others in the corridor shrank away from them. He’d done what he’d set out to do. Whatever ill end was evolving with those two, it wasn’t going to happen on his watch.

Eldredge was saying something, the knot of soldiers breaking up and moving with the exaggerated purpose of those seeking to corral fear. The man and woman were talking over one another, pointing.

Schweitzer ignored them all. He took control of their shared arm and pushed the broken transparent cone back the other way, sending fragments tinkling to the floor and widening the hole enough for them to slip back through, landing lightly on their feet and returning to the pile of books. There was nothing else to do.

Schweitzer sat them back down on the floor, trying to wrap his head around what had just happened and why the aftermath felt so different.

Suddenly, a certainty tore through him. A gust of feeling. The smell of rosewater filling his nostrils, cloying. Sarah. Sarah floating in a lotus position, eyes closed.
I’ll get past this. But I don’t want to.

He shook his head internally, noticed that his physical one had followed suit. Impossible. Sarah was dead. He’d seen the bullet take her.

He turned to Ninip but noticed Eldredge looking through the hole in the glass, eyes crinkling with, what? Sympathy?

“You did a good thing, Jim,” Eldredge said.

Ninip paced, and Schweitzer tried to process the words.

He’d died, come back, shared his body like a close apartment with a thing out of hell.

And in the midst of it, done good.

HINT OF A LIE

It took Steve longer to call than she’d expected. The days stretched on, growing long and hollow, the space filled with a string of excuses not to return her mother’s and sister’s increasingly frantic calls. She endlessly turned the thought of pregnancy over in her mind before dismissing it. By her normal calendar, her period should have just finished, and it should have been fine. But the stress and injury had thrown her cycle into chaos, and there had only been spotting at odd times.
You should take a pregnancy test.
No. She couldn’t deal with that, couldn’t handle the answer either way. Not yet.

So she played with Patrick, searching for glimmers of progress, snatching at a word or an expression. The therapist assured her that, while it would take time, he would make way, that children were remarkably resilient. But all she could do was think of Peg’s recounting of how she had slowly realized that her own son was autistic. It was the one time Peg had broken down in front of her, not so much crying as having too much liquid for her eyes to contain, running down a face whose expression showed no hint of grief.

No, Walter was fine. For the longest time he was fine. Then . . . it was like something broke inside him. He started going backward. He wouldn’t make eye contact, he stopped trying to talk to me. He . . . he regressed.

What if that happens to Patrick?
Sarah’s mind whispered, what Jim had called her inner reptile, the piece of her whose sole job was to jump at shadows, to plan for the worst, to overreact, to do anything it had to in order to keep her safe. They’d trained Jim’s reptile mind until he lived in the space he needed to occupy in order to do his job. Sarah had worked not to follow him there. One family member in constant condition yellow was enough.

Not that it had done him, had done any of them, any good. When the threat condition yellow prepared them for had finally come knocking, readiness wasn’t enough.

So she knelt in front of Patrick, lowered her head until her ear almost touched the floor. She trembled with worry until he finally met her gaze, and she saw recognition in his eyes. Then, relief would flood her with such force that she would lie on her side, panting, struggling and failing to hold back the tears, to be strong for her son.

Sometimes Patrick stared. Sometimes he ignored her. What he never did was come to her, crawl into her arms, ask why Mommy was sad.

It was in those small moments that she regretted turning Steve away. It would have been wrong to keep him, but in those troughs she thought that maybe any lie was better than the empty gulf that stretched across her days. Unwilling to leave Patrick, she’d stopped going to the gym, whiled away the hours in front of her laptop, scanning e-mails she couldn’t bring herself to answer, watching her social media scroll by, a flowing current of a world that kept on turning as if nothing had happened, as if her life hadn’t been suddenly snatched away from her, crumbled into a lumpen ball, and handed back with a note attached that read, FIGURE THIS OUT. GOOD LUCK!

Only one man had managed to pierce that fog, both for her and Patrick, and she’d kicked him out for his trouble. For at least the tenth time, her hand went to her cell phone, touched it, left it. No. She couldn’t give him what he wanted. Not until she’d closed the door on Jim.

What the hell is wrong with you?
she yelled at herself.
Jim is dead. It’s time to accept that. Steve is alive. Patrick is alive.

You are alive.

Her hand went back to her phone, drew it out.

She was so startled when the phone lit up that she tossed it in the air, then fumbled it a few times before finally settling it back in her hands, buzzing like an angry insect, the screen filled with an image of Jim and Steve, in uniform, arms draped across each other’s shoulders. It was the profile pic she used for Steve.

She tried not to take it as a sign.

She brought the phone to her ear, the warmth of her cheek picking up the line. “Steve.”

His voice was level, determined. “Don’t hang up. I need you to listen to me.”

“I’m not hanging up.”

That, he wasn’t prepared for. “Right . . . well.”

“I’ve missed you,” she said. She knew right away that it was the wrong thing to say even if it was true. “I don’t want to . . .” She couldn’t find the words. Be alone?

“Let me see you. I need you to see my face when I say what I have to say.”

She closed her eyes. She dreaded that meeting as much as she hungered for it.

“Can you keep your hands to yourself?”

“I’ll try not to be offended by that question,” he said.

“Can you?”

“You know damn well I can.”

“Okay, fine.”

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” he said, and hung up before she had a chance to change her mind.

Patrick stared, expression unreadable.

“Uncle Stevie’s coming over,” she said. “Would you like to see Uncle Stevie?”

Patrick went back to his trucks without answering, his muttering a little louder now, a running interview in a language only he could understand.

She snatched up her laptop, leaned against the back of the couch, and tried to wait. Her mind seized in time with her stomach, and she realized it would do no good. She had to do something to fill the space while Steve drove I-64 at his usual breakneck pace.

She’d finally settled on another round of cleaning the already immaculate suite when she heard the soft chime indicating that she had e-mail.

Grateful for the activity, she propped the lip of the computer against her belly and flipped it open.

And froze.

The e-mail was the only unread one in her in-box, the bolded letters striping across the screen, boldly proclaiming the sender and subject.

The
SENDER
column read:
PORTSMOUTH RAPID STD/HIV/DNA TESTING
. The subject was:
ACCT. P00001224617 RESULTS
.

She glanced at the can where it sat on the counter. They’d duct-taped it closed after taking their sample, put it in a plastic grocery bag. She’d forgotten all about it.
Be honest. You blocked it out. You know what that e-mail says, and what it means.

It meant closure. It meant saying good-bye.

She was conscious of the pressure of her teeth digging painfully into her lip, forced herself to relax.

You couldn’t have better timing, Steve.
It wouldn’t do her any good to face Steve just after reading confirmation of her husband’s death.
Why? You know he’s dead. What difference does an e-mail make? Having closure will help you move forward with a clear head.

She thought of her dreams, the trail of rose petals, the unshakable certainty that he was alive.

Time to wake up. She swallowed and double-clicked the e-mail.

She read it three times, became slowly conscious that her mouth was hanging open, that a thin stream of drool was beginning to slide down her lip to drip onto her T-shirt.

She read it again. “The fuck?” Patrick looked up, his eyes widening.

“Ohmygod.” She dropped the laptop onto the couch cushions.

The phone was already up, Steve forgotten, pressed against her ear.

“Comeoncomeoncomeon,” she said as the thin stream of tones indicated it ringing.

At long last, “Portsmouth Testing.”

“Hi, this is Sarah Schweitzer. You just e-mailed me test results on a couple of samples I brought in last week?”

The next few minutes seemed like hours as she waited to speak to the clinician assigned to her case.

Then another eternity of ringing, her stomach in knots that it might lead to an answering machine. If it came to that, she’d get in her car and drive there. She’d explain to Steve later. He’d have to understand.

When the other end of the phone picked up, she nearly sobbed with relief for the second time that day. “Yes, yes. Hi. This is Sarah Schweitzer.”

The voice on the other end had a Virginia accent so thick she could barely understand it. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I just got my results over e-mail, and . . .”

“Yes, ma’am.” The voice was mildly amused. “I’m guessing you’re going to want us to testify in court? Looks like your crematorium has some explaining to do.”

“Are you sure there wasn’t some mistake? I can’t believe . . .”

“There’s no mistake, ma’am. That’s pig ashes you’ve got there. Not even close to a match for the semen sample you provided.”

“I can’t . . . the navy gave me these. How is it possible . . .”

“We get questions like this all the time, ma’am. We don’t even try to answer them. For liability reasons, you understand. We can assert our findings, and that’s as far as it goes. Now, if you want to use this as evidence in a civil proceeding, we have . . .”

“How can you be sure? Aren’t pig and human DNA similar?”

The man responded with the vaguely irritated resignation of one who’d answered this question ad nauseum. “Yes, ma’am. Quite similar, but you have to remember we do this a lot.”

“A lot? You test pigs a lot?”

“All the time. Livestock’s about three-quarters of our business, I’d say. We get a lot more animal-heritage business than paternity cases. This isn’t DC, ma’am. Lot of farming folk out this way. They live and die on their breeding lines, and I’m sorry to say that sometimes folks aren’t as honest as they should be in setting their stud fees.”

She didn’t realize she’d gone silent until he spoke again. “Ma’am? Is everything okay?”

“Yes, yes. Fine. You are absolutely a thousand percent sure that was pig ashes.”

“Yes, ma’am. We got lucky in that there were a few fairly good-sized bone fragments in that canister. It’s rare to cremate someone all the way, but this was a rush job.”

She hung up without saying good-bye, her mind and stomach doing loops in time. She looked back at the can on the counter, duct tape sealing in a lie.
Maybe there was some mistake.
What mistake? Do they typically keep pigs on navy bases? Cremate them? It didn’t make sense.

She turned back to Patrick, who was standing now, coming to her.

And suddenly the sensation returned with such force that she staggered.

She’d seen no body, there’d been no funeral, no article in the papers. The navy had shrouded the whole thing in secrecy, and now there was a can full of pig ashes on the kitchen counter of her rented, extended-stay suite.

Jim was alive.

She swept Patrick into her arms, pressed his head against her thigh.

The doorbell rang.

Steve’s timing had gone from fantastic to horrible in an instant. Or, had it? She had questions, and he was the logical place to start.

Patrick toddled to the door, hands raised and grasping. Normally, she’d at least go through the motions of lifting him, allowing him to pretend to open it. Now, she practically knocked him over in her rush to open the door. She swept Patrick up under one arm, beginning to squall as Steve came in.

He broke into a broad grin at the sight of the boy, and Patrick calmed as she passed him to Steve, who tossed him in the air as he made his way to the couch. “Hey, little man!”

She turned, closing the door behind her, leaned against it. Steve sat, settling Patrick on his knee before turning to her. His smile fled.

“Sarah, we’re just talking. There’s no need for drama.”

She shook her head. “Never mind that.”

“What? Let me put Patrick in his room for a minute. He can play with . . .”

“No, Steve . . .”

His face darkened. “Look, you can’t just keep on . . .”

“Steve, will you shut the fuck up and listen for five seconds?”

He closed his mouth, set Patrick down. The boy wrapped his arms around his calf and pressed his head against his knee. “Nice language around the P-Train.”

“That can of ashes. Where’d you get it?”

“What do you mean where did I get it?”

“Just answer the question. I’m in no mood right now.”

“I told you. I got it on post. They gave it to me after I made a fuss.”

“No. I mean, specifically. Who gave it to you?”

He looked at her as if she’d sprouted a second head. “Chief.”

“And you trust her?”

“What kind of a fuc . . .” He looked down at Patrick, lowered his voice. “What kind of a question is that?”

“It’s the question I’m asking you, damn it. It’s the question I need you to give me a straight answer to.”

“Yes. That woman has saved my ass on at least three different occasions. I’ve run ops with her since I pinned on. I would trust her with my life. I have trusted her with my life.”

“She’s never lied to you? She’s never given you any reason to . . .”

“She’s a SEAL, Sarah. She’s cleared Top Secret. They polygraph her every five years. If a person can be proved honest, it’s her.”

“Did you see them pack the ashes?”

“What? No! No, I didn’t see . . . Look, what the hell is this all about?”

She gestured to the laptop. “First e-mail.”

He disentangled himself from Patrick, put the computer on his lap, and opened it. She watched his expression, the sullen anger and surprise, the slow fade first to concentration as he read and finally to disbelief as the meaning came clear.

“You . . . You had it DNA tested? What the fuck? Sarah, what the fuck is wrong with you?” All concern for Patrick’s tender ears was gone.

“I might ask you the same question, Steve. I thought I was crazy myself when I had it run, but I gave myself permission to be crazy for once. Seemed like the right time for it. Now I’m glad I did.”

“There has to be a mistake. The lab messed up.”

“I just got off the phone with them. They seem pretty damn sure.”

“Have them run it again.”

She shook her head. “Do they keep pigs on Little Creek?”

He remembered Patrick, pulled the boy in, covering his ears with his hands. “What?”

“Just answer the question.”

“No! Wait. Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Yes. For TCCC.”

She was familiar with the acronym soup for Jim’s day-to-day, but this one hovered at the edge of her mind, just out of reach. She cocked her head.

“Tactical Combat Casualty Care. We cut their femoral arteries to practice stopping arterial bleeding.”