Hybrid, p.14
Hybrid, page 14
Had the virus turned her into the female version of Klaus Reisch? Was his depravity her destiny? She tried to reject that thought, but she knew objectively that they weren’t that different. They had both knowingly taken lives, joyfully taken lives for their own selfish pleasures, and the willful taking of a human life represented the ultimate disconnect from humanity.
What they had become and what they had done had made them outsiders, forever looking in but always excluded from humanity. Reisch had made peace with that fact, he reveled in it, but Amanda still struggled with it. A part of her longed to be free—to embrace who she had become, and happily live outside the restraints of society, as Reisch had done. But another part of her longed to recover what she had lost—to love, to be loved, to hurt, to cry, to experience the joys and pain of a life truly lived. She wanted to be a part of a family again; she wanted to be a part of anything again.
Amanda felt Mittens stir deep in her mind as she closed herself to the endless and futile debate. He’s not human, and you know what that means? He doesn’t count. Her old dog whispered to cheer her up.
“He has answers we could use,” Amanda answered.
Imagine how it will feel tearing him open and feeding on his soul! Mittens was lost in images so powerful that even Amanda began to pulse with the old familiar lust for blood and violence. It will be just like the old days. We get to play and do something good at the same time. Mittens purred like the Cheshire cat, and for a moment Amanda and her predator were of a same mind.
“Maybe just once more,” Amanda whispered to herself. For seven years a promise she had made to Greg and Linda Flynn had suppressed Mittens and her violent desires. But Reisch doesn’t count. He’s not human! She smiled but suddenly felt a bitter taste in her mouth. Without a doubt Klaus Reisch was in a class by himself, but she had used similar justifications before. A woman who killed a baby, or a street corner drug-dealer; the list went on and on. In the end they were just excuses for indulging her dark desires. She had sworn an oath to the Flynns that reached past them to her late husband and son and stretched all the way back to Amanda’s soul.
“Does it matter why I kill someone, or only that I have killed someone?” she asked the universe, not expecting an answer.
It is the why that defines you or separates you from Reisch, said her long-neglected conscience. It used the voice of her dead husband, and Amanda still clung to the distant hope that it was truly Michael communicating to her. Are you doing it for your benefit or for the benefit of others?
After more than a moment’s thought Amanda answered herself. “Both, in equal measures.”
***
Confusion was his first clear thought. Where was he and why was he on the floor wrapped in a blanket? He tried to move, but had managed to mummify himself quite securely, and it took a minute before he finally figured out how to extricate himself. He rolled onto his back, trying to catch his breath. The room was dark—so dark he couldn’t see a thing. How did it get to be night? he thought. His mind was thick and sluggish, and he slowly began to piece together what had happened. “Amanda,” he whispered. The name caused his heart to race with hopeful anticipation, but then he remembered their meeting. She was what he had hoped, but not who he had hoped. She wasn’t Eve to his Adam; she was like everyone else, unworthy. Except, unlike anyone else, she could hurt him. He blinked and saw blue dots. It dawned on him that the room was too dark even for night. He painfully turned his head and could only dimly make out the bedpost and tousled bed sheets. He blinked several more times, and each time the blue dots became fainter. He turned his head the other way and looked up at the curtained window. Muted sunlight was streaming in through the cheap drapes.
“At least I’m not blind,” he said, his voice sounding normal enough. He took an inventory and found that the skin on his chest and arms was as pink and as healthy as ever, but that his right arm was lifeless. His right leg was also weak, but at least it would move. He clawed his way up to the bed and just lay there breathing heavily from the exertion. He couldn’t begin to understand what had happened to him, or how she had managed to do it, or even why. What he did know was that he would not give her a second chance. He had come all this way to protect her from the others, and now he was going to kill her.
He fell asleep again but didn’t dream. His mind simply shut off and began to repair itself. He lay there for an hour until the awkward position forced him to move. His right arm still refused to respond and, once again, ended up beneath him. The pain in his shoulder woke him. When his eyes opened, he found that his vision was back to normal but that his right side remained weak. His fingers still wouldn’t move, but he could weakly flex the elbow. His right leg moved, and he thought it had enough strength to bear his weight. Sliding off the bed into a semi-standing position, he braced himself with his left arm. He started to walk around the bed, but his lame right foot caught on the fallen bed linen. He clumsily worked his numb leg and nearly tripped himself. He managed to make it into the bathroom without causing himself any more harm and began to collect his things. He would have to leave Colorado Springs—no, he could finally leave Colorado Springs. He hobbled around, picking up any evidence that might betray the fact that he had been there. Since he had only been at the Sheraton for two days, not much cleaning was needed. He thought for a moment. What did it matter if the authorities searched his room? They would never find him. He would be long gone before anyone even knew he had been there. His confidence bolstered and his leg growing more reliable, he finished packing.
Ten minutes later, a bag hanging from his left shoulder, Reisch limped out into the snow. A pickup truck with a plow attached to its front end was clearing the parking lot, and he had to wait for it to pass. As he stood there, while the wind and snow found ways under his long wool overcoat, he felt the mind of the police officer. He was being watched with more than just idle curiosity. He surveyed the parking lot and found the cruiser. Reisch focused the mental connection a little tighter and, with a shock almost as great as finding Amanda, realized that the police were specifically looking for him. He saw a long line of parallel tire tracks in the snow, and a large black man trudging through them.
He was stunned by his colossal stupidity. Without a thought, he had driven from the Van Ders’ house directly back to his hotel, leaving a yellow-brick road in the snow for the police to follow. He had avoided capture and even positive identification for almost thirty years; every major intelligence agency in the world had at one time or another searched for him, never really knowing if he existed or not. He was the best at what he did—his longevity had proven it—and now he was going to be undone by some small-town cops because of tracks in the snow. The absurdity of the situation overwhelmed him, and he laughed out loud.
The plow passed, leaving him in a cloud of snow and exhaust. The cop was waiting anxiously, hoping Reisch would get into his rental car. He felt the excitement pulse through the young officer. He was eager to impress someone. Reisch waited, and the cop’s mind focused in on the face of a large black man, the same man who had followed the tracks to Reisch’s hotel. Rodney Patton was the name that played off the officer’s mind. Patton had told him to stay put, just observe and not to be a hero. Good advice, but Reisch wasn’t going to let the cop follow it.
He hobbled across the parking lot to a snow-covered sedan three cars away from the waiting officer. Painfully, he took the overnight bag off his shoulder and made a show out of laying it down next to the car. He stood for a moment, pretending to survey how much work he had ahead of him, and then with his good arm he slowly began to push the snow off the roof. His attempts were deliberately feeble, and he stopped frequently to catch his breath, his right arm hanging limp at his side. The cop watched every move, and when it became obvious that the tall, dark man needed help, he got out of his car.
The officer walked over to Reisch with a long ice scraper. “Excuse me, sir, can I help you?”
“Yes, that would be nice,” Reisch said, with a New York accent. “I had a stroke a few years ago, and this damn arm ain’t good for much now.” Reisch moved to the back of the car, but the young cop skirted him and walked to the front, sweeping the long scraper through the eighteen inches of snow in long arcs. The cop was just about the same height as Reisch, but he was easily fifty pounds heavier, and in much better physical condition. Even if he had use of both of his arms, Reisch couldn’t ensure a quick and quiet kill.
The officer had cleared most of the windshield and hood, and Klaus was pleased to find a BMW beneath the snow. The god of fate had allocated a reliable German car for him to use. But first, he would have to dispose of this young and eager cop. There were two more officers inside the hotel, and he could just start to feel their minds, so he had to act quickly. He finished clearing off the back window and maneuvered around to the passenger side as the officer was beginning to work on the top of the car.
“I don’t think you and your family are going to get very far today,” the cop said. “Most of the roads are closed. But at least your car is going to be clean.”
“Family?” The question was out of Reisch’s mouth before he was even aware of it. The word sounded unfamiliar, and for a moment his confusion was obvious.
“I saw the car seat. My wife and I have the same kind.” The cop motioned at the carrier strapped to the back seat, confusion now playing across his face.
“Oh, that’s for my nephew. I’m up here visiting my brother and his family. We drove up to Denver yesterday and got back so late that I decided just to leave it for the morning.” Reisch sounded convincing, but he knew that the cop had picked up a trace of the lie. Reisch moved closer, pretending to help clear the roof. They bumped elbows, and the young cop smiled, but Klaus felt his mind darken. He was closing himself off as instinct and training began to raise the alarm that this dark man was more than what he seemed.
It was always easier taking control of an unsuspecting mind, but Reisch thought he would have no trouble with this one. He extended his mind into Brian Yaeger’s a moment before the cop asked him for some ID. He struggled briefly, but Reisch overwhelmed him. He wasn’t interested in playing. He needed to dispose of Yaeger as quickly and as quietly as possible and then get out of this city. He needed time to recover his strength. Reisch began to squeeze the life out of the young man. Yaeger responded by grabbing his head and dropping to his knees. He howled in pain as Reisch focused harder and harder, but he wouldn’t die. Reisch began to sweat despite the cold. Never before had he had so much difficulty. His head began to hurt, and his heart was pounding in his chest. He imagined his hand closing around the cop’s brain, turning it into a bloody mess, but even that didn’t work. Yaeger finally passed out, and the screaming died away. Reisch slumped against the car, panting from the mental exertion. He couldn’t do it. A few hours earlier, he had luxuriated in the murder of George Van Der, taking his time, prolonging the old man’s agony and his own ecstasy. But now, making this simple man pass out was the best he could do. He watched the cop’s breath turn to steam in the cold, wondering what this meant. He felt exposed and vulnerable. She has done this to me, he thought. A blind rage started to build in his mind as the image of Amanda flashed before him. He fought to redirect its energy; he couldn’t afford to lose control now. There were still two more cops looking for him.
He managed to clear his mind and found that the two cops inside the hotel were busy interviewing an elderly couple, asking them about a vehicle. Relieved that he had a few minutes, Reisch returned to the task at hand. He looked down at Yaeger, sprawled out in the snow between the BMW and the pickup next to it. At the moment he was partially concealed but would be completely visible after Reisch took the BMW. He bent down to the cop and slowly rolled him beneath the wheels of the Ford. It took longer than it should have, and a sense of urgency began to grow in him. Finished, he kicked snow over the unconscious cop and returned to the BMW. It was a long shot, but he tried the doors anyway. Fate was still on his side, and he smiled when he found the rear passenger door unlocked. He pushed aside the car seat and reached up to unlock the driver’s door. Yaeger had rolled further beneath the pickup, and Reisch could feel his mind begin to stir.
He walked quickly around the car and got in again. Time was running out. He found the ignition wires and started the car as expertly as a professional car thief. The radio sprang to life, and it took him a moment to turn it off. He felt the other cops on the move and Yaeger regaining consciousness. The car slipped into gear as the young cop began to struggle beneath the Ford, throwing off his cover of snow and rapping his knuckles against the truck’s exhaust pipes. Reisch backed away, but the car was cold and stalled. He started it again, but only after a few more precious seconds had elapsed. He gunned the engine, and the motor began to purr smoothly.
Yaeger struggled to his feet, grabbing at the sedan doors. His eyes were wide with confusion, surprise, and fear as he struggled to free his weapon. Reisch struggled in turn with his lame right arm; he had slid the gear selector past reverse and into neutral and was having trouble pushing it back into the correct gear.
Yaeger raised his weapon and started yelling for Reisch to get out. His hands were shaking visibly.
Reisch found reverse and flew past the officer. Yaeger fired into the passenger-side window, shards of safety glass showering over him and Reisch. Twice more he fired at the fleeing car. The last bullet ricocheted across Reisch’s upper right arm. He barely registered the pain as he quickly shifted into drive. Yaeger tried to block the way, his weapon pointed through the windshield directly at Reisch’s head in a perfect police academy tripod stance. Reisch barely registered driving over the young man as he spun his way out of the parking lot.
Chapter 17
They sure know how to travel, thought Nathan Martin. He was the only passenger aboard the Gulfstream G550; the two Marines who sat together in the back of the jet didn’t count. He quietly played with all the buttons in the console next to him. He knew he should still be angry. They had threatened him and then interfered with the workings of his department. It was this violation that still made him fume, but damn, this was exciting. Never once, in all his years of travel, had he ever flown first class, and now he was flying to a secret meeting in a multimillion-dollar jet.
“Hey, colonel, how much do you suppose this plane cost us taxpayers?” Martin loved to play the liberal card. It was part of his image, but image was all it was now. Nearly four decades of work in the real world had erased any semblance of idealism. Human society would never fully mature so long as humans were involved. There were long spells in his life when he had more respect for the special pathogens he tried to eradicate than for the people he tried to cure.
“I really wouldn’t know, Doctor, but it is my understanding that your taxes are specifically earmarked for the purchasing of army latrines. So, on behalf of a grateful nation, I thank you,” Colonel Simpson said, with a deadpan expression.
Martin laughed out loud. “Never let it be said that I didn’t give my all for my country.” Simpson was beginning to grow on him. He wasn’t the stereotypical army automaton. He actually had a personality, and there was an outside chance that he could even think on his own.
Martin watched the clouds go by. Occasionally they opened enough for him to see the Earth far below them, revealing all the tiny ant-people in their tiny ant-cars living in their tiny ant-cities. “So. can you tell me now where we’re going?”
Simpson responded by getting up and retrieving his briefcase. Martin watched as the Marine officer walked up the aisle and sat in the seat opposite him. “What I’m about to tell you is beyond classified. As such, you are required to sign a non-disclosure agreement. If you violate this agreement, we will know, and we will arrest you. Do you understand this?” Simpson’s voice conveyed no emotion but still managed to be threatening.
“I do, and I assume that if I decide not to sign this, you will execute your presidential order, or perhaps just toss me out the door?” Martin smiled, trying to get Simpson to lighten up.
“I have not been given that option, Doctor.” The colonel handed Martin a single sheet of paper.
Martin took the letter. “You have to learn to relax, colonel,” Martin said absently while reading through the page. “Have you got a pen? Security took mine back at the airport.”
Simpson’s only response was to hand Martin a ballpoint pen.
Martin scribbled his signature and returned the pen and paper back to the colonel. “Okay, I’m listening,” Martin said, becoming serious.
“A little more than seven years ago, the United States attacked and destroyed a terrorist compound in Libya. We had reliable intelligence—”
“Reliable intelligence? For God’s sake, not that excuse again,” Martin said, with contempt.
“Doctor, neither of us is here to have a geopolitical debate. Your views on past events are a matter of public record and have no bearing whatsoever on the here and now. I need you to focus on what I am saying and keep your personal opinions to yourself.” Simpson’s eyes bore into Martin.
Martin accepted the rebuke; he knew he had made an ill-timed and inappropriate comment. “I’m sorry, colonel. Please continue.”
“Roughly nine years ago a network of Arab extremists rather blatantly built a camp in the southern desert and began to train in full view of our satellites, which was somewhat unusual. They are usually more circumspect about their activities. It was a small camp, much smaller than others throughout the region, and seemingly of little concern. At first, we thought that this represented a shift in the Libyan government, back towards state sponsorship of such activities. Later we found that that was not the case.
