Touching Darkness (6 page)

“I'm hoping to start my own business where I can take the assignments I want.”
Was
hoping.

“Like what? Treasure?”

“Things that have historical or sentimental value. Shipwrecks, but for museums. Lost jewelry, family heirlooms…family.” He gave her a pointed look.

“And bones,” she said, changing the subject.

“Yeah, I'd like to help Bone Finders without having to beg for time off.”

“So you might die on some salvage mission. Or you might not. Does that mean you can't get involved with someone?”

It seemed overly dramatic to tell her he was going to die, even if he made up some logical and believable reason, like a fatal disease. “I'm just not the kind of guy who can be in a relationship, that's all. I date women who aren't interested in anything long-term and who won't be hurt when I go off on some mission and don't call or write or visit or promise to think about them every second. I'm one of those jerks who can't commit. And you, Livvie, are a woman who deserves a man who makes love to her every night and fixes her breakfast in the morning and talks about his day while cleaning up after dinner.”

It was a nice picture, but she wasn't smiling. “You're not telling me the truth, Nicholas.”

“That is true. And what is even truer is that I will not hurt you.” He turned and walked out of the room, the hardest thing he'd had to do in a long time. And that was saying a lot.

M
onday morning, Nicholas walked to the French doors that led out to his balcony. Jerryl approached Darkwell, who was standing in front of the maze's entrance. Nicholas had seen the two of them out there before, talking, laughing…bonding. Jerryl was definitely the golden boy of the program. Nicholas had no idea what Fonda's skills were. He'd never been friendly with either her or Jerryl.

Nicholas stepped into the hallway. Olivia's door was open, but she wasn't at her desk. Graceful sculptures sat on the shelves of her credenza, and classical music wafted out. What a dichotomy she was, subdued on the outside, feisty with him. It drove him crazy, that he could have her, and yet, he couldn't.

The dark bronze doorknob on Darkwell's office door softly reflected the light. Like a mysterious object in the bottom of the ocean, it called to him. His fingers wrapped around the cool metal. He held his breath and turned the knob.

He glanced in both directions and stepped inside. The pressure in his chest warned him to back away. He realized what had always bothered him about the man: the sense of darkness he glimpsed in his eyes.

A quick in and out, find something that would either corroborate what the Rogues had told him or negate
it. He pulled open a drawer and started riffling through the folder tabs. Nothing. He opened another drawer and in the back was a section of red folders with dates from the eighties and initials on the tabs. He grabbed one and opened it. At the top of the sheet on the left was a name scribbled in writing he recognized as Darkwell's: Francesca Vanderwyck.

Lucas Vanderwyck was one of the Rogues Nicholas had been tasked to find early on. He'd been shot during the assault at the hospital. Francesca had to be his mother. Then Nicholas's dad would be there, too, if he was part of the program. He found the folder—and heard a sound at the door.

Olivia stood there, her face a mask of disbelief. “What are you doing?”

He pulled out the folder and closed the drawer. “Trying to get the answers Darkwell won't give me.”

She eyed the folder in his hand. “I can't let you take that.”

He walked to the door. “This is about my father.” And whatever substance Nicholas might have inherited from him.

“You can't just steal something from his office! That's classified information. If he finds out…”

“What? Will he kill me?” He'd seen Darkwell's anger. Not loud, but a sinister calm. “I'll make copies and get it back to you.”

“I thought you had integrity.” She glanced down the hall. Voices drifted from the vicinity of the stairs: Darkwell and Jerryl.

While he was looking in that direction, she snatched the folder and ran to the drawer. He reached her as she stuffed it back into the drawer.

“Get out of here, Nicholas, before he comes.”

He made a grab for the drawer handle, but she blocked him in a move so fast it surprised him. No time for more than that. Damn her. Was she trying to protect that data or
him? He and Olivia walked out just as Darkwell and Jerryl came around the corner.

Darkwell's gaze narrowed. Of course, he thought they were socializing again. He gave her a withering look as he went into his office, closing the door soundly. Olivia closed her door the same way. Like father, like…

No, she was nothing like her father.

Jerryl eyed Nicholas. Why had they come back inside so quickly? Had Jerryl remote-viewed Nicholas in Darkwell's office? The air thickened with a dark tension.

Jerryl rubbed his palm over hair barely longer than a five o'clock shadow as he walked over to Nicholas. “Gerard said you were asking about my skills. Any particular reason?”

“Just curious.”
It's
Gerard
now, is it?

“This is important shit we're doing here, Braden. There's stuff we have no business knowing. Our job is not to question but to act. And if that means killing, we kill.”

“I joined DARK MATTER to save people, not target them for killing.” He'd seen the result of killing: smashed bones, dismembered skeletons, and shattered families. His own family, too.

Jerryl sneered. “You can keep your hands and your conscience all squeaky-clean while I take out our enemy.”

“How are you going to do that? Remote-view them to death?”

His laugh was more of a rumble as he backed toward his door. “Yeah, that's what I'm going to do. And I'll do the same to anyone who threatens the program.”

 

Sam Robbins paused outside his boss's door and listened. He could barely hear through the thick wood, but what he could hear made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Darkwell was making arrangements to transfer Sayre Andrus out of prison. In rare instances, CIA could transfer prisoners who had specific value to the government into their custody.

Andrus was an Offspring Darkwell had recently discovered. Sam had read some of Andrus's file. The prison warden would probably be happy to see his troublesome prisoner go. Several accusations had been filed, ranging from “voodoo spells” to unexplained deaths, none proven.

The door opened, and Darkwell stopped at the sight of Sam.

Darkwell's voice was terse. “Come in.”

Sam walked in and closed the door. “You're trying to get Andrus out of prison? He
murdered
a woman.”

Darkwell sat at his massive desk. “The evidence was circumstantial at best. Besides, that has nothing to do with what I want him for. If he
has
murdered someone, at least he's not squeamish.”

Sam couldn't get past that statement. “You know that Andrus is a cold-blooded psychopath.”

“Yes, I do.” Darkwell's black eyes glittered. “But he'll be
our
psychopath.”

The truth hit Sam like a wave of ice-cold water: He'd been working for a psychopath all along. Instinct said to play along. “I suppose you have a point. But I thought Andrus wasn't interested.”

“I must have piqued his interest. He called to set up another meeting. He wants out of prison. I just got off the phone with a judge I know in Florida to find out what the process entails. I need permission from the court, and a judge authorizes the release. Should be easy enough. Andrus will work here with us for four months, and I'll let him think it could go on longer. He'll have to go back, of course. I'll blame it on red tape, regulations, whatever. If he escapes, or if word gets out to the public that he's been released, it'll create a media frenzy.”

Sam approached the desk. “Does the director know?”

“I'm not involving him unless and until I have to. He's very impressed with the information I've already given him. We just got word that the information Jerryl gave us
last week led to the capture of a terrorist cell hiding out in London. If I need to approach him, I don't think it'll be a problem.”

Sam rubbed his balding head, nervous at the thought of that man here on the grounds. “Will he be kept secure?”

“Of course. He'll have a guard posted to him at all times.”

“What is he capable of?”

“You know his heritage. There are several possibilities.” Darkwell smiled with satisfaction. “I'm going to give him a test assignment. Andrus is going to be the turning point in DARK MATTER. He's going to get rid of the Rogues. That should make you happy.” His smile faded when he didn't see agreement on Sam's face. “Was there anything else?”

Sam shook his head and returned to his office. Twenty-five years ago, he had been an idealistic CIA agent drawn into Darkwell's vision of changing the world. Then things got ugly when he started giving the program's participants something that enhanced their abilities but not telling them—or even him—what it was. They started showing signs of mental breakdown, but all Darkwell could see were their achievements. When Jack Stoker had gone on his shooting spree, the program was closed down and obliterated from all records.

Then, several months ago, a CIA agent involved in the first program had contacted Darkwell with a concern: One of the subject's grown daughters was showing signs of the same psychic abilities as her father. Would she also succumb to mental illness?

Darkwell saw only the possibility of the subjects' offspring inheriting those enhanced abilities. A search for the offspring revealed that they had. He revived the program and hid it under a cover program, even using his own money to fund some of the expenses. He'd dragged Sam back under his control.

Four of their own had died, several injured. Offspring
had been killed, too. Lucas Vanderwyck and Eric Aruda were probably dead.

It was all going to go bad, and Sam wasn't going to get buried under the fallout this time. He remembered Darkwell's subtle warning when Sam had wanted out before. Darkwell would no doubt eliminate him to protect his program. The man had had his own brother killed, for God's sake, when he'd threatened to expose the true nature of the program to the director.

He searched his computer for any relevant files and printed them. Sensitive, but not enough to hold over Darkwell's head should anything suspicious happen to him.

Sam saw Darkwell head down the hallway toward the winding stairs, then watched his superior pull away in his black Mercedes. He returned to the hall and tried Darkwell's door. It was locked.

Olivia, Darkwell's assistant, stepped out of her office, startling him. “He's gone for the day.”

“I gave him a file earlier and realized it contained the wrong papers. You know how he gets when we make a mistake.”

She nodded knowingly. “Hold on, I'll get the key.” She returned a minute later and unlocked the door. “Go ahead.”

He grabbed up the file he'd just given to Darkwell. “Let me get the other file. I'll be right back.”

Unfortunately, she was waiting near the door when he returned. He set the same file on the desk, reached around the doorknob, and made the appropriate motion. “I locked it. Thanks. You saved me a browbeating.”

She smiled as she pulled the door closed. “No problem.”

Sweet girl. She had no idea what her father was. She idolized him, always had, so it was no use warning her.

Two hours later, he walked the long, paneled hallway to see who was around. One guard always wandered the interior in addition to the two patrolling the grounds. He doubted the
inside guard knew he had no business in Darkwell's office, but he couldn't be sure enough to risk his life.

His heart thudded as he turned the knob and slipped inside. The computer would be password protected. His only hope was to find something in the physical files. After checking several drawers, he found the notes on BLUE EYES, the original program.

He turned on the copier and started with the first file. He was halfway through when he heard a noise. Adrenaline shot through him. If Darkwell found him, he'd be killed.

He shut off the copier and cracked open the door. He heard the echo of conversation in the grand foyer, one man's voice getting louder as he ascended the stairs. The office offered no place to hide. If he didn't lock the door, and that
was
Darkwell, he'd be suspicious, especially with Sam loitering in the hallway. Reluctantly, he turned the lock, the file containing his copies tucked beneath his arm, and closed the door.

He headed toward his office, fighting the urge to look back.

“Robbins, what are you doing here so late?”

Cringing, he turned to face Darkwell.

“Just heading home.” He pressed the folder closer to his body as Darkwell's gaze fell on it.

“What are you working on?”

The blood drained from Sam's face. “Different ways to look at the statistical data.”

“Really? Let me have a look.” He reached for the folder.

Sam swallowed hard, trying to find some excuse to refuse. That would only pique his suspicions. His trembling hand dropped the folder, spilling the papers on the floor. He knelt and pulled the papers together. “They're all out of order. I'd better get them sorted.”

Another sound caught Darkwell's attention. His eyes narrowed at Olivia and Nicholas Braden walking down the hallway in a serious discussion. “We'll talk later.” He
walked up to the two. “Olivia, can we speak in private, please?”

Sam shoved the papers in the folder and headed down the stairs, afraid his wobbly legs would give out and send him tumbling.

All he had to do was send Darkwell a copy of a couple papers and tell him he'd gotten everything. He would get them to his attorney. Then he would make arrangements to disappear. He'd always wanted to go to Croatia.