Wet Work Read online

  “I thought I saw Garcia and Gapczynski,” Marco replied, waving toward the screen, “but they’ve probably got half the regional office there by now.”

  “We have confirmed that NTAC agents entered Wheaton’s cabin just before sunrise this morning,” said the reporter on the screen, “after the latest round of negotiations that lasted more than nine hours. From what I’ve been told by NTAC spokespeople on-site, we might see them come out with suspected 4400 terrorist Eric Wheaton in federal custody.”

  Shaking her head, Skouris said, “‘Suspected 4400 terrorist.’ That’s perfect. Just the kind of thing we need to make sure the public stops trusting any returnee.”

  “Assuming the public ever really trusted any of them in the first place,” Marco said, sighing as he ran a hand through his unkempt dark brown hair. “Besides, it’s local TV news. They’re just filling the air and hoping people don’t flip to CNN or the Playboy Channel.” He reached up to adjust his thick, black-rimmed glasses, which Diana thought should have made him appear as the quintessential nerd but instead lent him an air of intelligence tempered with a vulnerability she somehow found comforting.

  Just don’t tell him that, she chided herself.

  From behind her, Skouris heard a muffled snicker, and looked over her shoulder in time to see Brady Wingate, one of Marco’s Theory Room team members, lean away from the computer workstation on his desk and tap his companion, P.J., on the shoulder.

  “No channel surfing here,” she heard Wingate say in hushed tones. “She does it for me.”

  “It’s the blazer,” P.J. replied. “You’re all about women who look like they’re in charge.”

  Both men were regular denizens of this overcluttered hovel, each perpetrating the time-tested cliché of the classic science geek: glasses, horrendous fashion sense, and high-pitched, nasally voices. Wingate’s shock of brown hair likely had not interacted with a comb in months, whereas P.J. was bald save for a ring of close-shaved stubble around the sides and back of his head. Had she not known P.J. to be married, Skouris would have bet a year’s salary that neither agent had left this room since the beginning of the current presidential administration. When they nodded to each other before turning to stare at her, Skouris realized that her chosen attire for the day was not all that dissimilar from that of the journalist on the TV.

  “I’ll bet she’s not carrying a gun,” she said, smiling as both men responded by taking a profound new interest in whatever lay before them on their desks.

  “Here we go,” Marco said, pointing to the screen.

  Skouris returned her attention to the TV, on which she saw the cabin’s weathered front door swing open. “There’s Garcia and Gapczynski,” she said as two female agents, each dressed in jeans and a dark blue Windbreaker bearing the NTAC seal over the left breast came out of the cabin. Following after them was a pair of burly police officers—sheriff ’s deputies from the color and cut of their uniform, Skouris surmised—escorting a handcuffed man.

  “And you can see Eric Wheaton being escorted out of the cabin now by local law enforcement officers,” the journalist said, stepping out of the frame in order to provide an unobstructed view of the proceedings. Wheaton was dressed in dirty khaki trousers and a worn red flannel shirt, his chin darkened by several days’ beard growth while his dirty black and gray hair dangled in strings before his expressionless face. Another officer exited the cabin behind him, reaching out to grasp the bedraggled returnee by his other arm. The local reporter’s photographer kept his camera on the three of them as they stepped off the cabin’s porch and began making their way toward a line of police vehicles parked a few dozen yards ahead of them.

  “Wow,” Marco said, speaking over the journalist’s ongoing commentary. “They let the locals make the arrest. Someone must have called in a favor.”

  Skouris sighed as she watched Wheaton march toward the waiting SUVs. “He looks more like a drowned rat than a real threat. He’s not making any trouble.”

  “I can live with that,” Baldwin said, draining the last of his coffee. “Considering what he’s supposed to have done, this could’ve gone a lot worse. Score another one for the good guys.” Nodding toward the screen, he asked, “The real question now is, how many more Eric Wheatons are out there, out of step and pissed off that the world’s passed them by?”

  “Hopefully we’ll find out when the Denver NTAC questions him,” Skouris replied. She was about to turn from the TV and reach for her portfolio on the table when, on the screen, Wheaton stopped in his tracks. The local news camera had zoomed in on the man’s face, and his expression had changed from apparent resignation to shock.

  “What the hell…?” Baldwin started to ask, but the words seemed to die in his throat as Skouris watched Wheaton’s head cock to one side before sliding free from the rest of his body. A geyser of blood spouted from his neck, dousing the deputies supporting his now-slack form. The picture jerked and lost focus, the photographer obviously stumbling as he pulled back the camera’s view of Wheaton’s limp body. Then the frame shifted to track his decapitated head, which rolled down the hill until it stopped at the feet of the heretofore staid and composed news reporter, who promptly vomited.

  “Hoooly…shit,” Brady called out, his voice rising an octave.

  “That’s gonna leave a mark,” added P.J.

  His fingers scrambling over the keys on the remote control he still held, Marco shouted, “Tell me the DVR’s working.” He stabbed at button after button. “Tell me the DVR’s working!”

  “It’s working, it’s working,” P.J. replied, his own voice heightened by surprise and unexpected anxiety as he worked his computer keyboard. “You’ve got the wrong remote. Just give me a second! Sheesh.”

  Skouris watched the image on the screen reverse and accelerate, resetting the picture to those last few moments before Wheaton’s grisly end. P.J. tapped another few keys, and the scene began once more to play forward in normal fashion.

  “What just happened?” she asked, feeling her heart pounding in her chest.

  “Damn if I know,” Marco replied, coming around the table and moving toward the TV. “P.J., slow it down,” he said, before looking to Skouris and Baldwin. “I don’t know how clear this will be.” He stepped close enough to the screen that he now was bathed in the colors of the overhead projector, seeming almost to blend in with the image before him. “Hold it right there!” As the screen froze, he pointed to the image of Wheaton, his finger lingering near the pasty white skin of the ill-fated man’s neck. “Right there. You see it?”

  “Right where?” Baldwin asked, and Skouris could hear the confusion in his voice. “What are we looking at, Marco?”

  Tapping the screen with his forefinger, Marco replied, “The slice.” He looked around the conference table, grunting as he failed to locate whatever it was he sought, before nodding in satisfaction as Wingate offered him a different remote control. His thumb sliding over its keypad, Marco used it to cycle the halted image back and forth between two frames of footage. Skouris could see the first frame depicting Wheaton’s unsullied neck, while in the second frame a thin, dark line appeared along the exposed skin just beneath his jawline.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Marco shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  From behind them, P.J. called out, “Get out of the way. You’re making it all blurry.”

  “That’s not me,” Marco snapped as he stepped out of the picture and pointed to a hazy area just behind Wheaton’s head. “See? It’s a glitch in the recording or something.” He waved his hands in capitulation. “This isn’t Hollywood-grade equipment, you know. Government-issue, courtesy of the lowest bidder and all that.”

  A glitch? It took Skouris a moment to realize why that phrasing seemed important. “Tom,” she said, “remember last year, after the 4400 were released from quarantine? Lona Callahan and those CIA agents near the bank?”

  Baldwin nodded, frowning. “Yeah?” Then his eyes widened as realization
dawned. “Oh, wait a minute.” He looked back at the screen, waving a finger at it as though it had just given up some harbored secret. Turning back to Skouris, he asked, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Shrugging, Skouris said, “Well, Callahan is a 4400. Maybe what we’ve got here is some hint as to whatever ability she may have developed.” Invisibility? Super speed? Either of those traits, as ridiculous as they may have sounded a year ago, were but the first guesses as she and Baldwin considered a possible new wrinkle in their case.

  Behind them, Marco asked, “Wait, you think Callahan killed Wheaton?” He returned his gaze to the frozen picture of Eric Wheaton in apparent mid-decapitation. “Wow. Gotta give her style points.”

  Skouris nodded in reluctant agreement as she regarded the disturbing image. If this was assassination, it was not a sanitary act by any means, such as those Lona Callahan allegedly had carried out with sniper rifles or furtive poisons. Any of those at least would have allowed the killer some distance from her target. Instead, this was wet work of the old-school variety, the kind of sanction that got an assailant bloodied and afforded that moment of cold clarity found only by staring into a victim’s eyes just before the deed was done.

  Cold, Skouris mused, swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat.

  “Marco,” Baldwin said, breaking her reverie, “can you scrub that video? Maybe slow it down even more?”

  “I’ll need all the footage from every source on the scene,” Marco replied, stepping back to the table. “If I can get that, I should be able to create a multi-angle model and show you anything and anyone in the picture. Maybe by tomorrow morning?”

  “Get on it,” Baldwin said, “and get with Galanter while you’re at it. He’s got some other footage you can compare it to.”

  Marco nodded. “Now I remember. Okay, we’ll get it going.”

  “Thanks,” Baldwin said, and Skouris watched as he retrieved his portfolio from the conference table before heading for the door. “Come on, Diana, we’ve got some calls to make.”

  “Denver?” she asked, falling in step behind him.

  “Denver,” Baldwin replied. “I want to talk to the on-site agents. Maybe they saw or heard something.” He shook his head. “Hell, I don’t know.”

  “Do you really think this might be Callahan?” Skouris asked as they left the Theory Room, with Baldwin leading the way toward the elevator.

  Her partner shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”

  NEAR GOLDEN, COLORADO

  As the crisp mountain air played along the beads of sweat spotting her brow, Lona Callahan huddled in a sitting fetal position, gulping water from a transparent plastic bottle and embracing the seductive and fulfilling rush of accomplishment surging through her.

  It was just as she remembered, and it engulfed her with the same intensity as she had longed for it to do—maybe even prayed for it to do. The sensation was every bit as euphoric, as consuming, as beyond any other experience to her as it had been the first time it occurred, after she had killed Frederick Morehouse. With this newest taste, Lona knew she could never resist the summons reaching out for her, confident that she always would be rewarded in this manner by whoever or whatever it was that continued to impel her.

  Her escape from the area had been effortless, thanks to the weeks spent exploring the remarkable gift she now possessed, this seeming ability to slip free from the constraints of time itself. After much practice, Lona now could move and act in a manner that left her all but unseen to the naked eye, at least for short periods. By focusing her mind on the task, she could stroll through crowds and encounter no interference from people; to them, she simply was not there. She was able to act upon them as well, lifting a wallet as quickly as stealing a kiss, standing before them to stare right into their eyes without their knowledge, or—as she had just done—delivering a fatal blow in front of uncounted witnesses without any of them seeing her, then vanishing back into the ether from whence she had come.

  Though she still did not comprehend how she conjured this power, it had not taken long for Lona to realize the physical toll such effort exacted on her. Returning to “normal” time always brought with it an all-but-insatiable thirst, her lungs burning and her heart racing as her metabolism fought to recalibrate itself. Despite this, she had begun to notice her stamina increasing as she continued to practice refining her control over the time-shift. Soon, Lona was certain that she would command greater endurance over her ability just as she enjoyed an overall fitness level improved by her regular exercise regimen.

  Soon, but not just yet.

  Draining the last drops of water from the bottle she clutched in both hands, Lona still panted from her exertions. Having taken refuge within an abandoned elk hunter’s blind more than a mile from Eric Wheaton’s cabin and out of sight from anyone at the scene, she dropped the empty bottle into the canvas backpack she had staged here. She retrieved a second, identical container and just as quickly began downing its contents. Then, motivated by the intense hunger she now felt, she reached into the satchel and retrieved an energy snack bar. Barely restraining herself from jamming the entire bar into her mouth, Lona tore away a sizable bite, chewing as she continued to bask in the exhilaration she still felt from what she had just accomplished.

  What was fading beyond her ability to retain, however, was the burning intensity of purpose that originally had filled her mind with the image of Eric Wheaton, and that had continued to compel her to the actions she had taken today. Until now, Lona found it difficult to remember when she was not focused on the troubled man to the near exclusion of all else. During her waking hours, Wheaton dominated her thoughts. When she slept, he encroached upon her dreams.

  Just as she once had done while preparing to carry out assignments given to her by her former employers, Lona spent considerable time researching Wheaton. With the power of modern-day computers and data retrieval as well as the judicious use of one or two qualified people from Reiko’s list of trusted sources, she had tapped public and classified databases to obtain all manner of information about her fellow returnee. His life, his activities, and the crimes he was alleged to have committed all served to define her target.

  Tracking him had been far easier, with Lona heeding the force calling out from somewhere in the back of her mind, imploring her to trust it and follow the paths it indicated. How it knew where to find Wheaton remained a mystery, and her attempts to question her unknown benefactors were met with silence and darkness at the edges of her consciousness.

  Killing him had been easier still, and in that regard she treated this undertaking just as she had all of her previous targets. Lona had never spent a great deal of time wondering why someone was to be killed, nor had she questioned her employers on the subject. In the past, all the justification she had ever required was transferred to her bank accounts. While she no longer was receiving payment to employ her special skill set, her attitude toward the work remained the same even if those tasking her had changed.

  The desire for simple murder was not what drove her. Instinct told her that Wheaton’s death would have a purpose, and the manner in which he died must serve as an example to those who would choose to follow him as he pursued his agenda or who might opt to emulate him as they sought their own goals. For her part, Lona felt compelled to demonstrate her newfound physical gifts, almost as a show of appreciation for those who had bestowed upon her such power. After all, it would enable her to dispatch her target with an even greater level of theatricality than she ever had managed to accomplish throughout her previous career.

  She looked down at the garrote she had dropped near her feet. This version of the ancient weapon was one of her own making, consisting of a thin strand of high-tensile razor wire, with each end coiled tightly around twin cylinders of wood. It had been a long time since Lona had killed anyone in this manner, having no love for the gruesome mess brought about by such brutal action. With her heightened abilities, however, the act was almost surgi
cal. She had practiced on man-sized dummy targets for days, arrayed in groups and surrounded by motion-detecting booby traps that allowed her to perfect her approach, attack, and escape maneuvers. In short order, she was able to complete practice runs without disturbing the other targets or setting off any of the traps. She was, for all intents and purposes, invisible.

  So it had been with Eric Wheaton. At the speed she had been moving, the garrote was as effective as a guillotine, after which she was able to withdraw to a distance of nearly one hundred yards even before the man’s severed head touched the ground. Though she had missed seeing the results of her work, Lona knew that in today’s sensationalist media-driven culture, video footage of the assassination would be on every news channel and all over the Internet within the hour.

  She swallowed the last of her snack bar, sensing her energy level returning—for the moment, at least. Collecting her belongings into the backpack, she slung it over her shoulder before emerging from the blind. A survey of the surrounding trees reassured her that she still was alone and she set off, making her way deeper into the forest.

  As she walked, Lona felt a quick stab of regret, not for her actions but for her waning emotional state of bliss. In its place, questions and concerns began to flood her mind. After killing Frederick Morehouse, she knew that other people from her prior life would be stepping up their hunt for her. Given her past history and the flair she often had demonstrated when carrying out other assassinations, it would not take long for one of her former masters to deduce her involvement here.

  Likewise, she knew that agents from NTAC, tasked with finding explanations for the 4400, were aware of the capabilities harbored by at least some of the returnees. The nature and extent of such talents in the hands of this enigmatic group was a large part of NTAC’s ongoing investigations. It was one of the prime motivations behind the agency’s tracking and apprehension of Wheaton in the first place, and it was not unreasonable to assume that they would suspect another 4400 of being complicit in the man’s death.