Histories of the Void Garden, Book 1: Pyre of Dreams (35 page)

Stephanie
couldn’t say the words that were forming inside her head. She knew
they weren’t her own, and she didn’t need them. She thought about
the morning school run with her father. David wasn’t reckless, but
sometimes he was rushed. He’d backed into the Bleaker’s trash can a
couple of times, almost ran over their cat once. It had become a
running joke for Stephanie to yell at him, “Look out for the cat!”
as he was reversing. When he drove aggressively, Stephanie would
yell melodramatically from the back seat, “Daddy, I’m too young to
die, I’m too young to die.”

David looked
into Stephanie’s eyes now, and he thought he saw a smile forming.
She blinked imploringly, “I’m too young to die.”

David laughed
through his tears. She was right of course. He suspected Stanwick’s
coercion, but he felt no malice. It was right. If his stupidity had
brought them to impending disaster, then he had forfeit his claim
to sound parenting. When he stared back into Stanwick’s eyes, he
could see that she was sympathetic; she managed to convey her
empathy with scarce a change to her expression, but it was there.
He opened his arms and waved Stephanie to come over to him, and she
jumped up from Stanwick’s lap without hesitation.

“Your breakfast is
served.” West set the plates down for Charlene and Stanwick and
left the two to their reverie. He walked past David and Stephanie,
seating himself on the couch close by them.

“David.”

David hugged
his daughter tighter, closing his eyes against West’s words.

“David, do you
need to talk to Stephanie alone?”

David felt
Stephanie’s cheek press against his, “It’s okay dad. I
understand.”

“Will it hurt?”
David sniffed, adjusting his hold on Stephanie, then setting her
down on her feet beside him.

“Did it hurt
you?” West asked calmly.

“I was shot in
the leg. I presume there’s an easier way?”

West nodded,
“Yes, there’s an easier way for Stephanie.” He stood up and walked
back to the kitchen. He poured a glass of water, then took
something from the fridge before returning to the sofa. He handed
the glass of water to Stephanie, then he held out a glass phial,
swirling its contents gently, “Stephanie, you see those little
black dots?”

Stephanie
leaned close, and examined the phial. She could see that there were
a good number inky black pellets moving through the clear liquid,
“Is that them?” she asked, a little incredulously.

“They’re tiny
aren’t they?” West asked, smiling, “They’re just babies, but they
will grow quickly.” He saw the look of disgust as it swept across
Stephanie’s face, “How do they …” She looked at the glass of water
in her hand, then her fearful eyes met with his, “How do they get
inside me?”

West’s nose
wrinkled apologetically, “I think you’ve already guessed.”

“Yuck!” She
placed the glass of water on the floor beside her and took a large
step backwards, “Beach out!”

West laughed,
“It’s no worse than tapioca.”

“I hate
tapioca.” She tugged at her father’s arm imploringly, “Why can’t
they just shoot me?”

David patted
the back of her head, “I’m not sure I need to dignify that with an
answer Spiff.”

Stephanie took
the phial from West’s hand and swirled its contents with dismay. It
wasn’t like tapioca. When the clear liquid stopped its sloshing,
the black dots continued to move of their own volition. She picked
up the glass of water from the floor and handed it back to West
along with the phial, “Well this pretty much sucks.”

West nodded, “I
know.”

Charlene was
surprised at her own appetite. She looked at her own empty plate,
then her eyes wandered greedily towards Stanwick’s, which still
boasted a good amount of untouched meat. The fork wavered back and
forth in her hand. She could pounce, and have a meal of it before
Stanwick even knew what had hit her. Perhaps. She breathed in
heavily, blinking, horrified that the thought had even crossed her
mind. She looked up from the plate and realized that Stanwick was
sitting staring at her.

“I wasn’t
…”

Stanwick didn’t
look convinced, “Take it. Your need is clearly greater.”

“You sure?”

Stanwick pushed
her plate across the table, “It’s honestly a pleasure to watch you
eat.”

Charlene cut
off a chunk from the steak and lifted it towards her mouth,
salivating in anticipation, then somewhere a few feet to her left,
Stephanie started to wretch, very audibly.

Brad Cobb could see
the two vans already parked up and the agents from the New York
office walking towards the helicopter as it touched down. He was
greeted by one of the agents as he disembarked. The man shouted
over the wining engine, “Agent Middleton.” Firm grip, stocky man,
late twenties, slicked back dark hair, Carl Middleton nodded and
smiled broadly. Cobb returned the smile, bowing his head into the
wind and yelling his response, “Agent Carmichael informs me you’ve
all had the opportunity of working together?”

Middleton
nodded, “You need help with anything?”

Cobb watched
the other agents disembark, “No, we’re all good.”

Middleton gave
him the thumbs up, then led the way back towards the vans.

Cobb looked
expectantly around the new faces.

“Agent
Clements,” the man stepped towards Cobb, made a fumbled attempt at
fist bumps, followed by an awkward right hand to right handed
shake. Had he not read Simon Clements dossier, which gave his age
as thirty-two, Cobb would have guessed at early to mid forties.
Clements’ rapidly receding and prematurely graying hairline could
well be forgiven for trying to escape his thick and wiry
eyebrows.

“Agent Myson,”
soft hands, forceful shake, tied back blond hair; Phillipa Myson
was thirty-seven years old and attractive enough that Cobb felt
immediately uncomfortable. He mentally reprimanded himself for
fawning over the only other woman in the group, but she returned
his smile, either not noticing his overly enthusiastic greeting, or
to Cobb’s relief, playing it off professionally.

Cobb stepped
back so that he could include all of the agents as he spoke, “Agent
Wheatley will be comms in the lead vehicle with myself and agents
McMahon and Carmichael.

Carl Middleton
shrugged, “We’re up to speed. Got the updated brief a few minutes
ago. You’ve narrowed the sweep down to one apartment block at
Madison and 30th?”

Cobb nodded, “I
know this goes without saying, but stay sharp; whoever we are
dealing with managed to blindside two armed agents yesterday.”
Carmichael stared stoically at a patch of concrete, choosing to
ignore Cobb’s statement.

Phillipa Myson
spoke up, “This all seems a bit heavy handed, especially as we are
now talking about a botched job at worst. I mean, Why wasn’t this
just handed over to NYFO?”

Clements chimed
in, “Right, I mean, all this shit about Tiernan this morning, it
kind of feels like you guys down in DC are behind the curve.”

Not
enthusiastic about being put on the defensive, Cobb’s shoulders
slumped. “Honestly? We don’t have a good handle on what we’re
dealing with here. I’d love to tell you that this is one guy
working alone and that this will be an easy take down, but there is
enough evidence to suggest that this could be a previously unknown
terrorist cell … If this blows up, I’m confident that NYFO will put
as many people on this as is necessary.”

Myson nodded,
“I can call it in and have a team on standby.”

Cobb really
hoped that Brice Daniels had his facts straight; he was going to
look pretty stupid if it turned out he’d brought even a handful of
the New York Field Office out on a wild goose chase.

No matter how many
times his work brought him to New York, Brad Cobb couldn’t help
feeling like a tourist there. It wasn’t as if DC was hicksville,
but he could never get over the sheer scale of Manhattan and he
usually spent his first couple of hours in the city feeling
emotionally moved by it all. As Agent Carmichael steered the van
onto 1st Avenue, heading towards the building complex which housed
the headquarters of the United Nations, Cobb gazed down the length
of 42nd Street, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Chrysler Building.
He was no expert in either art or architecture, but he knew what he
liked and he liked the Chrysler enough to have learned a little
about Art Deco. The silvery stainless-steel spire of the building
came into view and Cobb’s spirits were immediately lifted by the
sun motif which built in swag like layers towards the needle. Form
over function; Cobb smirked as the phrase flitted through his mind.
As the monolithic form of the Trump World Tower loomed overhead on
the West side of the street, Cobb’s pulse started to race. They
didn’t have far to travel.

Stephanie walked
slowly towards the couch, her head spinning. Even the smallest
movement made her stomach lurch, and caused her to wretch again,
narrowly avoiding vomiting the glass of water and its vile contents
on the hard wood floor. The exertion of trying so hard to steady
her stomach had left her dizzy. She felt her father’s hand at her
back, heard his frantic words spoken through the soft tin echo
chamber of oxygen starvation. She closed her eyes tight and held
onto the arm of the couch. A woman’s voice, Stanwick’s she guessed,
apparently chiding her father, then her deft hands draping over
Stephanie’s shoulder, pulling her onto her lap.

“Breathe, in
through your nose, out through your mouth.”

Stephanie tried
to lift her head, sure that she’d be okay, but the darkness whirled
around her heavy eyelids. She felt Stanwick’s Cool fingertips on
her forehead, stroking, but at the same time, pressing her head
back gently, “Don’t try to get up yet. Take your time.” Stephanie
gave up her resistance and laid still, trying to block out all
thoughts of the little black pellets she’d swallowed. It was
impossible. With her eyes closed, all she could see was an ocean of
ink black dots, and she was at a loss to steady her seasick stomach
against those waves. She opened her eyes wide, covering her mouth
with her hand, “It’s coming!” she managed to blurt out, “Let me
up.”

Stanwick stood
up from the couch, gathering Stephanie in her arms and running with
her to the bathroom. She managed to pull Stephanie’s hair back and
kick up the toilet lid at the same time, but Stephanie vomited on
the floor anyway, a small pool of mostly clear water splashing
around the base of the toilet. Stanwick stepped back and set
Stephanie down carefully on a thick pile rug by the shower,
propping her back against the glass screen.

“Well
Stephanie, the good news is, that was all water.”

Stephanie
groaned, “What’s the bad news?”

“Did I say
there was any bad news?” Stanwick grabbed a towel from a wall rack
and mopped up the little puddle, “Do you feel a bit better now that
you’ve been sick?”

Stephanie
breathed deeply and closed her eyes again, “I do!”

Stanwick
slumped down on the floor beside her and smiled at David who was
leaning against the door frame with West and Charlene at his
back.

“All good news
here dad. Your daughter is fine.”

All of Cobb’s
reverence for the city, all of his awe had subsided by the time he
entered the foyer of the old apartment block on Madison and 30th.
He followed Agent Carmichael towards the back of the lobby and
stood aside as Carmichael took the time to display their
credentials to the doorman. Once Carmichael was finished, Cobb
handed the doorman a tablet which was open to the contact sheet. He
pointed at the photographs of David and Stephanie Beach, “We are
trying to locate this man and his daughter.”

The doorman
held the screen closer to his face and squinted, “Can’t say I’ve
seen ‘em.”

Carmichael
tried on several expressions before settling with a vaguely
distrusting grimace, “I’m sorry, you haven’t seen them, or you’ve
seen them, but you can’t say?

Cobb stepped
forward quickly, eager to diffuse the tense atmosphere, “Haha, I’m
sorry, you’ll have to pardon my colleague. I’m sure you’ll have no
objections if we canvas the residents?”

Steely faced,
the doorman handed the tablet back to Agent Carmichael, “Go right
ahead.” He nodded towards the staircase.

Cobb turned to
face the other agents, “Middleton, Clements, Myson, head up to
tenth and work down, we’ll work up from ground and meet in the
middle.” While the other three agents headed towards the small
elevator, Cobb made for the stairwell and began his ascent to the
first floor, two stairs at a time.

By the time they’d
reached the fourth floor, they had the rap and tap procedure down
to a fine art. Cobb knocked at the first door while Carmichael and
McMahon moved on. A balding, obese and heavily tattooed man
answered the door to Cobb; he clearly wasn’t one of their suspects
so Cobb opened with the apology.

“I’m sorry for
taking up your time,” He flashed his FBI credentials and continued,
holding out a printed copy of the contact sheet with photographs of
David and Stephanie Beach, “We are currently trying to locate the
people pictured here. Have you seen either of these
individuals?”

The man grunted
and shook his head. Cobb flashed an insincere smile, “Sorry to
bother you. If you do happen to see either of the people pictured
here, please call the FBI at this number …” he handed the man a
card, “We would urge you not attempt to approach them or alert them
in any way. Have a nice day.”

Carmichael had
a no show at 412 and moved on past agent McMahon who was struggling
in conversation with an elderly Chinese gentleman. Cobb leapfrogged
to apartment 414. The door was pulled open in small jerking motions
by a boy who could have been no older than four.