“Let go,” Andrew yelled, his voice dissolving into an inarticulate, furious garble of sounds as he drove O’Malley away from him. O’Malley stumbled then fell, landing hard against the defibrillator console.
“Defibrillation initialized,” the machine said. “Clear the patient.”
It wasn’t like on TV. There were no sparks as the electrical current surged. No resounding thump! No violent heaving as the affected body became a living, breathing power conduit. The affected body in question was that of O’Malley, and he simply twitched when two hundred joules of electricity surged into his body, lancing up and down the metal IV stand protruding from his chest as it might have a lightning rod. He twitched once, then twice, then pitched sideways, landing with a wet plop! against the infirmary floor.
“Defibrillation complete,” the machine said. “Please continue administering CPR until emergency personnel have arrived.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Andrew hiccupped, watching in horrified fascination as a thin tendril of smoke snaked up from O’Malley’s chest, the place where the IV stand had run him through and the electrified metal had burned him. With it came a strange smell, almost like frying bacon, and with a nauseated gulp, Andrew whirled around to face the door again. “Twelve,” he muttered, his finger shaking as he reached for the key pad. “The pass code is twelve.”
Which, when translated into base-two, was one-one, zero-zero.
He wrenched the door open when the light shifted to green, then yanked it closed behind him. Leaning heavily against it, he closed his eyes and struggled to control the heavy shuddering that shook him from head to toe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Despite Andrew’s screaming, his less-than-subtle escape from the infirmary, no soldiers came to investigate, which shocked the glorious living shit out of him. Even more ominous, there was no answer when he knocked frantically on Dani’s door.
“Dani?” He tried the knob, but it was locked. “Are you in there? It’s Andrew.”
He rammed his shoulder into the door once, twice, three times unsuccessfully, then decided battering wasn’t such a great option. Not only was it not working, but it was loud as hell to boot in the otherwise silent, empty hall. Then he remembered Moore’s pass code.
He let himself into my room earlier tonight, he thought. Maybe it’s a master code, sort of like a skeleton key that lets him bypass anybody else’s.
Figuring it was worth a shot, he punched it into Dani’s key pad. One-one, zero-zero. To his pleasant surprise—the first of few in as many hours—the red light turned green.
“Dani?” Pushing the door open wide, he hurried inside. The smell of O’Malley’s vomit lingered, thick in the air, and he drew his hand to his mouth and nose, grimacing. “Dani? Are you in here?”
He glanced into the bathroom, then once more into the bedroom to be sure it was all empty. Then he left, closing the door behind him to block out that horrible stink, and frowned.
Where is she?
“I took her.”
Andrew whirled, startled, at Edward Moore’s voice. The older man walked down the corridor toward him. He had his pistol in his hand, and this time, when he raised his arm parallel to the floor, drawing aim on Andrew’s head, Andrew doubted any semblance of rational self-control would stay his trigger finger.
“Where’s Dani?” he asked. “You son of a bitch, if you’ve hurt her…”
Moore drew back the hammer on the nine-millimeter with an audible, ominous click! “I don’t believe you’re in any position to be threatening me, Mister Braddock.”
Conceding, Andrew lifted his hands. “Where’s Dani?” he asked again, his voice softer now, pleading. “Where have you taken her?”
Moore studied him down the line of his gun sight for a moment, then said, “My lab.”
“Why?” Andrew asked.
“To make her tell me where my daughter is,” Moore said, closing the distance between them first to mere feet, then inches. “To make her tell me what you’ve done to Alice.”
“I haven’t done anything to her,” Andrew said.
“Liar.” Moore pistol-whipped him, smashing the gun barrel into the side Andrew’s head. The impact left him staggering sideways, then crashing to his knees, breathless and dazed.
Moore planted his foot against the base of Andrew’s spine and forced him down onto his belly, his shoe heel digging brutally into Andrew’s kidney. Cramming the pistol barrel against Andrew’s temple, he seethed: “Tell me where Alice is. Tell me right goddamn now, or so help me, I’ll—”
“Daddy, no!”
There she is, Andrew thought, recognizing Alice’s voice even as his mind abandoned him and he passed out. She’s right… behind you.
“Hey, Germ.”
In his mind, he could hear Beth’s voice, could see his sister in her hospital bed, with death so close and pervasive a thing, it had changed the way the air in the room had smelled to him, felt against his skin.
“Hey, Bess,” he’d replied, because he’d been able to see it in her face, the gaunt frailty there, her ashen complexion. The shadow of death. That’s what he had thought of when he’d seen her face, her pallor. Wasn’t that something out of the Bible?
Beth had started to cry, the brave façade she’d affected for their parents crumbling while alone with her brother. Her eyes had flooded, her tears rolling down her cheeks, and her bottom lip had quavered, her voice growing choked and strained.
“I’m scared,” she’d whispered, and he’d leaned over, letting her coil her reed-thin arms around his neck and cling to him, shaking as she’d wept.
“Don’t cry, Beth,” he’d breathed, even as his own tears had welled up and fallen. “Please don’t cry.”
He opened his eyes, disoriented for a moment, so certain that the dampness of his face, the warmth of tears had come from his dead sister that her name lay poised on his tongue.
Beth.
Instead he looked up at Alice as she leaned over him, her dark hair spilling in cascade of tangled waves over either shoulder to frame his face. Her pale cheeks glistened with tears, her slim body trembled and her lips quavered as she hiccupped for breath.
“Get away from him.” Moore snatched his daughter by the sleeve, dragging her backward.
“But, Daddy,” Alice began in protest.
“He’s dangerous,” Moore said. As he spun her around to face him, his expression shifted from murderous rage to sudden, inexplicable shock. “You’re crying.”
“I am?” Seeming as shocked as her father, Alice blinked, her hands fluttering up to her face. “I am,” she gasped, then began to laugh, as if delighted by the tears she felt on her cheeks. “Daddy, look, look at me! Look!”
Andrew sat up, grimacing as he cupped his hand gingerly over the swollen, bloody knot on his temple where the pistol had caught him. “I’m not dangerous,” he growled at Moore. “You’re the one who hit me.”
“And you’re the one who burned my house to the ground,” Moore snapped, pointing the gun at him again. “A woman died in that fire, you son of a bitch. A good woman who was my friend, a better mother to Alice than her own has ever been. You had no goddamn right…”
There was more, but in his dazed state, it took Andrew a moment to process. “What?” He shook his head. “Wait a minute. You…you think…?”
Somebody firebombed his house, Suzette’s voice echoed in his mind. They think it might have been a group of animal rights zealots. PACA, I think they’re called. People Against Cruelty to Animals.