The Sleepless Stars (5 page)

AFTER RYDER CALLED
FBI HQ and verified Grey’s identity—although the desk agent refused to “confirm or deny” Grey’s current assignment or whereabouts—Grey did the same. At least Ryder assumed he did, based on hearing half of a cryptic conversation. Then they continued their stroll around the crime scene, engaging in a verbal tug of war. “Caustic lye—you think they used it to cover their tracks or because it was part of whatever they were manufacturing?”

The FBI agent didn’t answer right away—part of the power game, Ryder knew. Instead, Grey crouched, pretended to examine a shard of glass in the beam of his Maglite, nodded as if the mysteries of the universe had just been imparted to him, and finally stood. “They went to the trouble of converting the sprinkler system to use the lye, so what do you think?”

“Same thing I thought when I first heard: some sort of domestic terrorism. Which makes me wonder why there aren’t more of your boys around.”

“Who says there aren’t?” Grey favored him with an inscrutable smile. “Maybe at this minute, my guys are pushing through paperwork that will allow them to transport all this evidence to a safe place where they can comb through it. Free from the prying eyes of a city whose mayor and DA’s office were recently indicted on public corruption charges and whose police chief can’t be far behind.”

That would make sense, doing it on the sly, away from reporters and public panic. But still, something didn’t feel quite right...

“Tell me about your officer-involved shooting last night, Detective,” Grey continued amiably, although it was obvious he was trying to keep Ryder off-balance. “Your second in a month, correct?”

“At least I wasn’t the one getting shot this time.” Ryder wasn’t impressed by the special agent’s sudden omnipotent knowledge of his career—easily the work product of minions scurrying on the other end of a text message. “It was a good shoot.” Bottom line for any police officer on the front lines.

“I’m sure it was.”

Ryder could have done without the patronizing hint of condescension. “If this was an act of domestic terrorism, then what were they after? Nothing around here except closed-down steel mills and coal mines.”

Grey stopped to think about that, his gaze scouring the waterfront as if expecting a flotilla of well-armed terrorists to appear in the night. “Exactly. Maybe that’s the point? That if it can happen here, it can happen anywhere?”

“Or maybe this is merely their staging area? Safe, quiet, little in the way of prying eyes. A few hours from Philly, DC, Baltimore, Manhattan.”

“In that case, we better hope that this,” Grey indicated the wasteland of debris behind them, “is the end of it. But somehow I don’t think it is.” He lasered in on Ryder again. “Otherwise, why would a detective kicked off Major Cases and assigned to work at a victims’ advocacy center be here, poking around on Christmas Day?”

“Routine curiosity. Heard it on the scanner, nothing better to do. Sad to say,” Ryder added in a self-deprecating tone. It was all the truth but none of what actually mattered.

“So you keep saying.”

It was clear Grey didn’t buy Ryder’s explanation. Tough. No way was Ryder giving the Fed more, not until he was certain that it wouldn’t end up backfiring, placing Rossi in more danger.

Grey continued, “You don’t think any of this could be connected to the doctor who got you shot last month? After all, it was her family’s bar that you saved from being blown up last night.”

Such a specific question gave away more than any answer Ryder could provide. So Grey not only knew about Rossi, he’d tied her to Ryder. Not difficult for anyone with the resources of a federal agent, but still, it made him uncomfortable.

“Right,” he answered warily. “The perpetrator had a grudge against both Dr. Rossi and the police. The bar hosting a Christmas Eve celebration and filled with off-duty cops was the perfect target. But since we were there, there’s no way we could have been here.” He circled his finger around the crime scene perimeter, hoping Grey interpreted his royal “we” as meaning both him and Rossi.

Grey put his hands into the pockets of his expensive overcoat. “You know they pulled five bodies out of here, right?”

“I heard.”

“Did you also hear there’s a man missing? A Dr. Tommaso Lazaretto?”

“Are you thinking he’s a victim or an actor?” Ryder asked, using law enforcement shorthand for a person responsible for a criminal act.

“Why don’t you tell me? I’m guessing he’s the reason you’re here.”

“Never met the man.” Again, it was the truth. Tired of the cat and mouse and certain Grey wouldn’t be dropping any more breadcrumbs, Ryder called his bluff and started to walk away.

Before he’d gone three steps, Grey’s voice reached out from behind him. “I guess you don’t know, then. Your Dr. Rossi also seems to have disappeared. Vanished from the face of the planet, best we can tell. Any thoughts on that, Detective?”

Ryder whirled. “Why are you really here, Grey? And don’t give me any song and dance about evidence recovery.”

Grey was silent for a long moment, his gaze narrowed as he scrutinized Ryder in the moonlight. “I’m here because I think you and your Dr. Rossi have gotten mixed up with a very dangerous man. A terrorist my team has been tracking.”

“You think this,” Ryder waved a hand at the debris surrounding them, “was the result of domestic terrorism?”

“I think this is just the tip of the iceberg. And a lot more people will die if you don’t help me stop him.”

THE INTERIOR OF
the Kingston mansion matched the exterior with its opulent indulgence. At least what little I could see in the dimly lit passages with their dark wood paneling. It wasn’t until Flynn reached a room at the rear of the second floor and opened the door that I could make out much in the way of detail.

The room was brightly lit behind thick blackout curtains. The furniture was all heavy, expensive antiques that made the entire room feel as if there should be cobwebs hanging from every corner. Except for the medical equipment—enough to outfit a small ICU. That was brand new, the packaging piled against one wall below a frowning ancestor’s portrait.

A massive king-size four-poster bed with a single occupant held the center of attention. Daniel Kingston, bedridden and in a persistent vegetative state ever since a stroke felled him at Thanksgiving. The man whose memories I was here to steal.

I ignored Daniel to focus on the room’s other occupants. Devon Price, Daniel’s illegitimate son, stood beside my best friend and neurologist, Louise Mehta. Relieved to see her, I rushed into her arms. “You made it!”

“Just call me Bond, Jane Bond,” she replied with her meticulous British accent. But her clothing was rumpled and her earrings didn’t match, so I knew it was all a show of bravado.

“Geoff and Tiffany?” Her husband and three-year-old daughter.

“Halfway to London,” Devon answered. “No one is going to lay a hand on them, I promise.”

Louise nodded, her eyes tightening as if to hold back tears. “I would love it if someone explained to me exactly what the hell is going and why my family was forced to leave their home, go into hiding. I trusted Tommaso—trusted him with my patients. But now he’s part of some international conspiracy to create an artificial form of fatal insomnia? And he’s threatening my family?”

I glanced at Flynn and Devon. Obviously, neither of them had told Louise that Tommaso was dead, no longer a threat—although the men he worked for still were. Before I could say anything, she continued her rant.

“All those children? He’s behind their fatal insomnia?” Her voice rose in indignation. “Has he gone mad? Is he part of some bizarre cult or terrorist group? What could possibly have driven him to do this? Do you have any idea what that could do, infectious prions unleashed into the world?”

Of course I knew the danger, but Louise was a talker. Her way of handling stress, just as mine was to go silent and play my fiddle. I wished I’d brought it with me, had to settle for curving my fingers in the shape of chords pressed against my thigh, imagining an uplifting chorus of the Knocknagree polka. But that brought with it memories of Jacob—last time I’d performed that song, we’d played it together.

“That’s why we’re here,” Devon said in a gentle tone that surprised me. “To find the answers. To help the children. Keep them and your family safe.”

Louise’s chest heaved as she swallowed one breath then another. Her cheeks were flushed, lips pressed together as if she was choking back another outburst. Finally, she nodded. First at Devon, then at me. Then once more, her gaze vacant as she stared past us to the heavily curtained windows. “Yes. All right, then. Let’s get to work.”

“I saw the video Devon took at the lab,” she continued. “Not much that I can help with. Looked like protein sequences from a virus or bacterium. Geoff is going to have one of his friends who’s an immunologist take a look. Have you talked to anyone at the CDC?”

Before I could answer, Devon said, “No. We can’t risk it.”

“We can’t risk contagious prions getting out either,” she snapped.

“I was hoping Geoff could run the epidemiologic data on the children,” I said. Geoff was a biostatistician who consulted with the CDC as well as other global health organizations. If anyone could pinpoint exactly how the children were exposed to the fatal insomnia, it was him. “Anonymously.”

“He’s already working on it—you know Geoff and his obsession with puzzles.” Her voice trailed off, and I noticed that she’d turned so that she didn’t have to look at Daniel. She glanced around the room again, as if searching for an escape. I understood. What I was asking her to do was not that different from Tommaso’s betrayal of his own physician’s oath.

“Angela, we need to get started.” Devon was impatient with Louise’s stalling.

Louise shot him a glare that said,
Give me a minute.
I gripped both her arms. “If you’re not up for this—”

“I’m not, but more importantly, neither are you.” She stepped back from me, her gaze one of appraisal. “Look at you. I saw you not two days ago, and already you look like hell.”

“We both know it’s not going to get any better, not for me. But if I can help to save the children—”

“You’re no good to anyone if you’re dead,” she snapped, all patience gone. She whirled on Devon, hands on her hips. “Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? What you’re asking her to do?”

“She’s done it before.”

“And from what you told me, she’s paid the price.” She shook her head. “I still don’t believe it’s even possible, this psychic communication—”

“I’ve seen it.” Flynn surprised me by speaking up from her position guarding the door. “It’s real.”

“Daniel is our last hope to get the information we need,” I added.

Louise scowled at us each in turn. Finally, she relented. “If we’re doing this, then we’re doing it my way. I’ll be monitoring both you and Mr. Kingston every second of the procedure. Did you get the equipment I requested?”

Devon nodded and stepped aside to reveal another stack of medical supplies. Among them, wireless EEG caps. “Daniel had it all, already stockpiled down in the tunnels. More reason to suspect he knew what Tommaso and Almanac were up to with their experiments.”

Louise ignored him as she busied herself setting up the equipment that would allow her to monitor both mine and Daniel’s vital signs and brain waves. She started with Daniel, stepping back to observe his brain activity for a long moment. “Not much there except erratic theta spindles.”

“Theta spindles—those are what you found on Angela’s EEG as well, right?” Devon leaned over his father’s still body to watch. “They’re also created by PXA. Should we give them each a dose? We have the reversal agent in case we need it.”

He sounded so damned certain, gambling with my life. We’d found a possible PXA reversal agent at the Almanac lab before it exploded. Untested—at least by us—unproven, and who knew how unstable it might be? He also didn’t mention that one of the side effects of PXA was heightened pain sensation. So much so that Leo Kingston had used it to torture his victims before he killed them.

Louise frowned. “Daniel’s much too weak to handle a dose of PXA. In his condition, it could kill him before Angela has a chance to—” She stopped abruptly, gave a swift laugh born more of fear than humor. “I don’t even know what the hell to call it. Psychic communication? Telepathy? Vulcan mind meld?”

“I don’t know either,” I confessed. “But you should keep a close eye on Daniel. Every person I’ve touched like this, done this to, they’ve died.”

Devon stepped forward as if trying to block my words, clearly unhappy I’d mentioned that unfortunate side effect. “But they were all dying anyway. You can’t blame yourself.”

Louise scowled at him for a long moment before turning to me, this time taking my hands. Hers felt cold. Or maybe it was mine that were frozen numb. “Angie, think. Are you really okay with this?”

“What if it was your daughter?” I asked Louise. “What if it was Tiffany they’d infected?”

Her grip tightened, and she grimaced, her expression morphing from objective clinician to protective mother. It was a long, long moment before she answered. “I’d cut the bastard’s heart out.”

“There’s no other way. The lab is destroyed, all of Tommaso’s research gone—”

“Leaving Daniel as our only lead.” Devon nodded to his father’s still form. “I’m not going to force anyone to do anything. But—”

“We can’t fight them if we don’t even know who they are or what they want,” I finished for him.

“Or how they did it. Making prions communicable?” Louise shuddered. She turned to me with one of the wireless EEG caps. “Okay. Okay.” As she adjusted the cap over my hair, pulling the thick curls away from the electrodes and snugging it tight, she whispered in my ear, “If you do something stupid and die, I swear I’ll kill you.”

We both laughed at the ridiculous threat.

After swallowing a dose of PXA, I settled myself on the bed beside Daniel, taking care not to touch him. Louise fussed with the equipment, making certain it was recording. Back to the role of curious scientist.