Invasive Procedures (33 page)

“What do you do?”

“Tax attorney. I know, it sounds incredibly boring and mundane, but believe me, you have no idea how boring it really is.” He hung the strap of the gun over his shoulder. “Every quarter or so I have to get away for a few days and clear my head. It was just my luck that I chose to be away the night Galen was looking for volunteers.”

“I thought we said break was over,” Dolores said, her hands on her hips. “Are we moving or are we playing Getting-to-know-you?”

They got moving again, Hal on point and Frank taking up the rear. To Frank’s relief, Hal chose a reasonable pace, one that wasn’t too slow for their abilities or so fast that it would wear them out quickly. And now that they had rested a moment, Monica was easily keeping up again.

“How you doing?” Frank asked her. “You were struggling a bit earlier.”

Monica managed a smile. “Yeah, and Wyatt is doing just fine. I was worried about him, and I’m the one slowing us down.”

They walked in silence a moment. “You don’t think much of me, do
you?” she said finally, keeping her eyes forward. “That whole speech about cutting me some slack back there, I appreciate that, but I know you don’t mean it. Not that I blame you. I don’t think much of myself anymore.” She pulled her coat around herself tightly and bowed her head.

Frank watched her out of the corner of his eye and slowly allowed himself to pity her. He could see that she was worn down, and not solely from the hike. She was fatigued emotionally. And why shouldn’t she be? Galen had used her as much as he had used Frank and the others—more so, in fact, because Galen had forced her to
act
, to inflict pain, to threaten innocent lives, whereas Frank had only been the recipient of such actions. And wasn’t that worse? Frank had been touched by evil, but Monica, she had been forced to
become
evil, committing acts that neither she nor her profession could likely ever forgive.

All for the kid.

Frank pictured Galen in his mind, dangling Wyatt in front of her, promising to squeeze the life out of him if Monica didn’t cooperate. What choice did she have, really? Frank knew without even thinking that he would have done the same for Rachel. He would have killed, maimed, ripped his own heart out if it would have meant keeping her safe.

Monica reached up and wiped the sweat from her brow, or maybe she was wiping tears from her eyes. Frank couldn’t tell. “I know it’s a cliché,” she said “but I became a doctor because I wanted to help people. I wanted to make a difference. Make things right in people’s lives. And yet, had I not been a doctor, none of this would have happened. Galen wouldn’t have taken me and Wyatt, and no one would have gotten hurt.”

“He would’ve picked someone else,” said Frank, “some other doctor. It wouldn’t have made a difference.”

She nodded, knowing this but perhaps needing someone else to say it. “I know it will sound incredibly insufficient for me to say so,” she said, “and I know it won’t change the way any of you feel about me, but for what it’s worth, I am sorry for everything that’s happened. I wish I could simply make things right again. But I can’t.”

She was right, it did sound insufficient.
Sorry
is what you said to a stranger you bumped into in the supermarket or to a person you kept waiting at a lunch appointment. It wasn’t what you said to someone after having nearly killed him or after taking decades off his life expectancy.

Yet there was no denying her sincerity.

Frank opened his mouth to speak consoling words when frantic shouting in the distance ahead interrupted him.

“Hey! Over here!” someone was yelling. “Help us.”

“That sounded like Hal,” said Monica, looking down the trail and seeing that it was empty. Their conversation had slowed them and caused them to fall behind. Now the others were calling for help.

“Over here!” Dolores’s voice shouted.

Frank and Monica took off at a run down the trail. Turning a bend, they came to a wide freshwater lake. Byron, Hal, Dolores, and Wyatt were all at the bank, jumping and waving at a small fishing boat on the water a hundred yards away. Nick, on the other hand, was sitting on the ground, his head resting on his knees, looking pale and exhausted.

“Help us!” Hal shouted.

Frank squinted across the lake and saw the old man in the boat turn toward them and wave back.

“He sees us,” said Hal excitedly. “Look, I think he’s coming this way.”

Frank watched as the old man fired up his prop engine and turned the boat in their direction. Frank felt a wave of relief, and then the reality of the situation struck him. They were all infected with the virus. Even Monica and Wyatt were likely carrying it on their clothes to some extent. It wasn’t an airborne threat; it could only be passed via bodily fluids, but it was still very contagious. If they were going ask the fisherman for help, they had to go about it carefully, making sure that the old man didn’t get infected. But how? How could Frank contain the virus? The elderly were so much more susceptible to contagions than normal people. All it would take would be a single mosquito bite or a cut on the hand or maybe even a drop of sweat for the old man to contract it. No, the only option was to commandeer the boat, to take the boat and not the man, and to make sure the man got nowhere near any of them.

“Quick. Everybody get back into the woods.”

They all looked at him, bewildered. “Why?” said Dolores. “The guy’s got a boat. He can rescue us.”

“There’s no time to explain. Get back in the woods.”

Nobody moved. “This is a joke, right?” said Dolores.

“Frank,” said Hal. “This guy can take us to a dock or wherever it was he came from. This could be our ticket out of here.”

Frank looked at the boat. It was only fifty yards away now and picking up speed. The old man made eye contact with him and waved again.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said, then he pulled out the pistol and held it at his side, away from the fisherman’s field of vision.

“What are you going to do?” Dolores asked, fear in her voice.

Frank pointed with his free hand. “Back in the woods. Those trees over there. All of you.”

Monica took Wyatt’s hand. “Come on, Wyatt.” She pulled him quickly over to the tree line and they crouched behind some bushes.

“You heard him,” said Byron, pushing the others. “Let’s go.”

Hal and Dolores went reluctantly, and Byron had to practically carry Nick, who Frank noticed looked more than merely tired now; Nick’s jaw was slack and his eyes bloodshot.

Frank stood alone on the shoreline as the fisherman slowed the motor and idled the boat toward him. White puffs of smoke sputtered from the engine block. The old man smiled kindly, the fishing lures pinned to his floppy hat twinkling in the sunlight.

“Heard you yelling for help,” the fisherman said. “You folks need anything?”

Frank held the gun behind his back. The boat was probably close enough now.

All right, old man, let’s hope you got a better heart than mine.

Hal pushed back the branches of the bush in front of him and tried to get a better look. “What’s he doing? What are we hiding for? Somebody want to tell me that?”

“Quiet,” said Byron. “I’m trying to listen to what they’re saying.”

“We’re too far to hear,” said Hal. “This is stupid. What’s he afraid of? That we won’t all fit in the boat?”

“Quiet,” Byron repeated.

Hal had said it, but he hadn’t really meant it. Of course, now that the boat was close enough to get a good look at, it seemed a valid concern. They wouldn’t all fit. It was just a little dinghy with an outboard motor. They’d have to take several trips; that much was clear.

Well, I’m going on the first trip. You can be damn sure of that.

What happened next caused Hal to blink, just to make sure he had
seen correctly: Frank whipped the gun out from behind his back and pointed it at the old man—just pointed it right at his chest like a cop cornering a crack daddy.

“What does he think he’s doing?” said Byron, panicked.

“He’s going to shoot him,” said Dolores. “Mercy in heaven, he’s going to shoot the man.”

Monica clung to Wyatt and turned his head away so he wouldn’t see.

Frank was saying something to the fisherman, who now had his hands raised and looked scared enough to piss himself into a raisin, but Hal couldn’t hear.

“What’s he doing?” said Byron again.

I know what he’s doing, Hal thought. He’s doing what any sensible person who values their own life would do. “He’s taking the boat for himself.”

They others turned to him. “For himself?” said Dolores.

“As in leaving us behind. It’s a tiny boat, and he’s taking it for himself. Look, he’s making the old man get out now.”

The others looked back at the boat, and sure enough, the old man was shuffling to the side of it, preparing to get out.

“That can’t be right,” said Byron.

“What, are you blind?” said Hal. “He used us to help him escape and now he’s ditching us the first chance he gets.” He got to his feet. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m not about to sit here and let him run off with our only ride out of here.”

Byron reached for him. “Wait.”

But it was too late. Hal was charging through the trees toward the boat. The old man had one foot in the water when he saw Hal coming, started, and nearly fell headfirst into the lake.

Frank held up a hand. “Hal, stay back!”

Hal ran and jumped into the water. The boat was only fifteen feet out, so Hal was sure he could reach it without having to swim.

Frank yelled after him. “Hal, no! Stop!”

But Hal wasn’t stopping. He charged on, waist-deep in the water, plowing through the mud that pulled and sucked at his shoes, moving toward the boat, hoping and praying Frank wouldn’t shoot him in the back.

The old man’s eyes widened even further when he saw Hal coming and he toppled backward into the boat.

Dolores came running out of the trees. “Wait. Wait for me.” She lumbered toward the bank and tripped at the water’s edge, falling face-first into the lake and sending a spray of water into the air.

“Stop!” Frank shouted. “Stay back!”

But neither Hal nor Dolores heeded. Freedom was only a few feet away. Dolores moved quickly, now up to her waist as well.

Hal’s fingers were only inches from the hull when the gunshot tore through the air. For a split second Hal thought he’d been hit and instinctively looked down at his chest, expecting a pool of red to pour from it. But no blood came. He looked back toward shore. Frank was at the water’s edge, pointing the gun skyward. “Get away from the boat,” he said. “Both of you.”

Dolores began
to
back
off
.

“He wants it for himself,” Hal said, hoping she’d stay between him and Frank and take a bullet if one was fired at him. Then, turning back to the boat, Hal reached for the hull. He was touching the fiberglass surface when the engine roared to the life and the boat flew back in reverse.

“No!” Hal said.

“Wait!” Frank yelled.

But it was no use, the fisherman was too spooked. Hal made a last-ditch effort to swim for the boat, but he knew it was fruitless before he even began. He’d never been much of a swimmer. And the fisherman had the throttle wide open.

“Wait!” Frank yelled again.

When the boat was forty feet out, the fisherman jerked on the rudder, spun the boat in the right direction, then hit the gas again. The engine screamed and spat out a cloud of smoke as the boat zipped away.

Hal stood in the water watching his only chance of escape become a bouncing blip in the distance. He still hadn’t moved when the wake arrived and wet him up to his neck.

Riggs watched as the helicopter lifted off outside the Happy Mountain Rest Home. Inside the helicopter, a Healer lay strapped to a gurney, his shoulder wound being attended to by medics of the BHA.

“They did something to that man,” said Riggs. “It’s like he was in a trance or something.”

Peeps stood on the ground beside Riggs, watching the helicopter ascend. “Something like that,” he said.

Riggs faced him. “You know something I don’t?”

Peeps passed Riggs the contaminant scanner he had been holding. “I did a scan of the liquid in that vial he was holding.”

Riggs read the screen. “Human saliva?”

“Most of it. It also contained unknown substances the scanner couldn’t recognize. My guess is proteins.”

“Proteins?”

“Yet-undiscovered human proteins.”

Riggs raised an eyebrow. “Should I get something here? I don’t follow you.”

“Galen’s got a history of altering DNA, right? He knows how to manipulate genes in such a way that either inhibits or invigorates the production of proteins. Now, if he manipulated their production enough, if he
tinkered and experimented long enough, maybe he figured out how to initiate certain biochemical reactions.”

“English, Peeps.”

“Drugs, man. Mind control. Maybe Galen learned how to turn saliva into a drug.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“You got a better explanation?”

Agent Hernandez’s voice crackled in their comlink speakers. “Sir! We found Agent Carter.”

Riggs answered. “Where? Is he alive?”

“Alive and well. I’m sending you the location now.”

The schematic of the building reappeared on Riggs’s visor, and a small room toward the center of the building illuminated.

“I see it,” said Riggs.

“I’m initiating the best route here,” said Hernandez.

The straightest path to the destination lit up on the schematic.

“So far, the building is clean,” Hernandez added. “There’s plenty of equipment in here to suggest that the Healers have been a lot busier than we thought, but no Healers. It looks like the one we encountered toward the entrance was a lone leave-behind, guarding the building and Carter.”

Riggs and Peeps were already running back through the rest home, following the directions to Hernandez’s location. “Did you say
guarding
Carter? Was he a prisoner?”

When they reached the cell where Carter had been held, they saw the answer for themselves. The room was solid concrete, no windows, probably a janitor’s closet by design. The door, which now stood open, had been reinforced recently with several deadbolts, all from the outside. A single cot sat in the room by a soiled bucket and an empty plate of food. Carter sat against the wall in the hallway, his biosuit badly torn and damaged, drinking from a water bottle one of the agents had given him.