“You’re not just jerking me around? This is too important. You need to be one-hundred percent.”
Tears ran down Pell’s cheeks as he professed his new-found sobriety.
After a minute of silence, Chris patted him on the back. “You can do it, Pell. It’s all in the mind.”
“I’m sure as hell going to try. It’s been too long.”
At that moment, the voice on the speakerphone said, “Hello.”
“Oh, yeah,” Chris said. “They’re on the line.”
Pell pushed by him and into the conference room.
“This is agent Pelletier,” he said. “What have you got?”
“Agent, Pelletier. This is third-shift supervisor seven. We have been trying to contact you for the last ten minutes. Where have you been? When you leave a secure line open you need to be available at all times. Particularly as I understand you have a member of the public with no security clearance there with you.”
“Sorry about that,” Pell replied.
“We’ve finished the query you requested, and I’m sorry to say that, after looking at what we came up with, I don’t think you’re going to get much out of it.”
“That’s okay. I’ll decide if it’s any good.”
“I’m sending it over now” the faceless voice replied. “Are you ready?”
“Thanks for the help,” Pell said as he pressed a button on his portable communicator.
“That’s why we’re here,” the man said. After about thirty seconds, a piece of paper started to emerge from the front of the suitcase.
“Cool,” Chris said, admiring the technology – nothing but the best for the government. I wonder what this set the taxpayer back?
After a few minutes it was done. The communicator beeped, and Pell shut it down. He leaned back in his chair, unrolling the paper as if it were a scroll. Chris walked around the table and looked over his shoulder.
At the top was a photographic quality picture. It was of a plain-looking young girl; obviously this picture was taken some time ago. Underneath were the words Sarah Burns and a brief biography. Garden-variety information. She was a real genius, full-boat to Harvard, the whole works, but other than the genius part, she could have been anybody except for the fact that she completely disappeared back in the late eighties. After finishing college at the top of her class she vanished – no tax returns, no FICA contributions, no parking tickets, nothing at all to indicate she was even alive.
“See that,” Chris said as he pointed.
Pell grunted and kept unfurling the document. The next part was about the northern Maine connection. Nothing. It actually looked like the whole state was lily-white. At the bottom of the empty section were the words: No Pertinent Data.
Pell unrolled the last of the paper, and they stared down at their final clue. This would have to be it because they had nothing up to this point. But it looked like Operator Seven, or whatever number he was, had been right – they didn’t have a lot to go on. Engamy – most likely match Ngamy. A region of Botswana, north of the Kalahari Desert.
“What’s this?” Pell said. “Africa. How the hell do you go from northern Maine to Africa? Talk about computer errors. This thing must have been programmed by morons.” He crumpled up the paper and threw it into the middle of the table, obviously wishing he hadn’t poured all of his booze down the toilet.
Chris sat down, grabbed the piece of wrinkled paper from the tabletop and smoothed it out. “There’s got to be something here,” he said as he started to read it a second time. Years ago as a developer debugging code he had learned that most complex problems required multiple passes. How many bugs had he found in routines that at first glance looked fine? Dig, dig and then dig some more. Christ, he should be the one in the goddamn FBI. He gnawed on his now non-existent thumbnail as he studied the document.
“I’m going to make some coffee,” Pell said as he stood up. “Want some?”
“That’d be great,” Chris replied. As he studied the paper he muttered, “There’s something here. We just need to see it.”
Pell was gone for a few minutes, and when he returned, he handed Chris a steaming cup of coffee that scorched his mouth with the first sip. Pell fell into a chair with a sigh, leaned back and dropped his feet on the table, shaking it enough to spill some of Chris’ coffee. He started histling a mournful Irish ballad whose title escaped Chris.
“The cops and my partner are on the way,” he said. “There’s nothing there, Chris. Sarah Burns hasn’t been seen in twenty years. She could be pushing up daisies for all we know. We’re spinning our wheels.”
He nodded, not really listening – annoyed at how quickly Pell was ready to throw in the towel. This was what they had to go on, and he, for one, didn’t want to see Sarah Burns succeed. Nobody should mess with nature like this. Thinking you’re God is one thing. Playing God is quite another.
2:54 am Unorganized Township T8 R4, Aroostook County, Maine
“What the hell?” Seth exclaimed.
Bert rolled to his right, jumped to his feet, and ran for the door. The rifle roared. In the muzzle-flash Seth saw him run outside. Jerry cranked the lever and banged off another useless round.
“Stop shooting,” Seth screamed as he ran after him. “Let’s get him.”
The bright lights of the lab had destroyed his night vision, and he couldn’t see a thing. The compound was black.
“I’ll get some flashlights and guns,” Curtis said as he ran toward the main house.
“We’re going to split up,” Seth exclaimed. “Wendel, you go toward the airstrip. Jerry, go down behind the lodge. Curtis and I’ll go up the road. Hurry up, Curtis!”
After a long minute, Curtis stumbled out of the lodge with his arms full. He handed out pistols and flashlights. The beams of light streaked through the thin ground fog searching for Bert.
“If you find him, shoot him. Don’t think about anything; just pull the trigger,” Seth said. “I want him dead and I want him now. Let’s go.”
Seth was making his way up the road when he heard the hollow boom of a shotgun – a big one. Jerry had the rifle, the rest were carrying pistols – who had a shotgun? Before that thought could fully go through Seth’s mind, he heard the screams. They came from the direction Wendel had taken.
Seth sprinted back toward the trail that led up to the field. “Come on, Curtis!” He screamed over his shoulder as he ran.
As they raced back to the trail entrance, another shot rang out. The screams were silenced.
Seth slowed to a jog and then stopped. Who could that be? He had taken Bert’s shotgun. “There’s somebody else out there.”
“Huh?” Curtis said.
“None of us has a shotgun. Somebody else is out there. Let’s go back to the lodge.”
Jerry was waiting for them.
“What happened?” He asked.
“I don’t know. Whoever it was must have got Wendel.”
“What do you want to do, Seth?” Jerry asked. “We can’t just stand here.”
As they swung their flashlights around the perimeter of the compound Curtis yelled, “The lab – someone just went into the lab. Come on.”
Jerry and Seth spun around and pointed their lights in that direction.
“Are you sure?” Seth asked.
“Yeah, I just caught a glimpse of them with my flashlight beam. Someone ran in there,” Curtis replied.
“Spread out,” Seth said. They started to move toward the dark barn. The peak of the roof was silhouetted against the sky, which glowed a deep purple with the approaching dawn.
They crept slowly toward the building. Seth was going to shoot first and ask questions later. He was in a zone – focused, calm, prepared. He took steady breaths, reining in the body’s natural desire to overreact. Martial arts had taught him that the difference between success and failure was often nothing more than the ability to control oneself. The flashlight beam danced ahead of him as they approached the lab, dipping into the seemingly impenetrable darkness inside the building.