Wet Work Read online

  “When the time’s right,” she said. “And don’t worry about finding me. I’ll find you. It’s what I do.” Offering a sly wink, she turned on her heel and made her way across the lobby toward the bank’s main exit. As the distance between them grew, Alfred sensed the intangible connection between their minds beginning to fade. He tried to grasp the remaining strands of their intense link, which persisted for another moment after she stepped through the front doors. Then it was gone, much to his regret.

  Who was this mysterious, alluring woman? Alfred pondered that question, as well as what this strange encounter might mean, to say nothing of what it promised. What was next? When would Abigail choose to reappear in his life?

  It could not happen soon enough, Alfred decided.

  SEVENTEEN

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  ALL DIANA SKOURIS wanted was a warm bath and a few moments of blissful silence. She sought nothing less than a soothing environment in which she could let the day’s activities and worries melt away and swirl down the drain with the suds and the salts and every other pampering product she could find to pour into her tub.

  And wine, she decided. Yes, wine would be good.

  However, as she navigated the third-floor hallway toward her apartment, Skouris recognized a telltale rhythmic thumping reverberating through her front door, and knew instantly just what was taking place behind it.

  So much for quiet time, she thought.

  Sliding her key into the door lock, Skouris quietly let herself in. The synthesized drumbeat pulsing through the closed door gave way to a richer spectrum of electronic musical strains as she swung it open. She shook her head at the thought that a team of army rangers could have blown the thing off its hinges and gone equally unnoticed. Quelling her initial instinct to storm the place like the tired and cranky federal agent part of her brain so eagerly wanted to do, Skouris instead smiled, edging herself around the corner of the foyer to get an unobstructed view of her darkened living room and the controlled chaos now erupting within it.

  A pair of figures—one taller and one smaller—danced and stomped their feet in unison to hip-hop music while silhouetted in the dizzying bursts of flashing colors and symbols erupting from the television screen. They swung their heads in perfect, synchronous motions, their manes of hair flowing to unseen rhythms as if blown astray by the blaring music itself. Their legs worked like pistons, jamming their stocking feet onto a plastic pad spread across the carpeted floor in front of the television. Rising above it all, their giggles, coming in seemingly endless streams, added a layer of pure joy to the proceedings that Skouris found contagious.

  Unwilling to interrupt the moment, she propped herself against the wall, watching her sister, April, and her daughter, Maia, continue their act for several more minutes as the song played out. April’s uninhibited dancing—more like flailing—seemed to soften the edginess that had formed around her during her past rough-and-tumble years. Skouris also found herself living vicariously through her younger sister whenever she watched her connect with Maia at a playful and unrestrained level—one that Skouris herself rarely enjoyed with her adopted daughter. At times, she wondered whether that was a reflection of Maia’s own preternaturally advanced level of maturity since gaining her 4400 powers of precognition, or evidence that Skouris herself needed to be more encouraging of Maia’s outlets for play and whimsy.

  Probably a little of both, she decided.

  On the television screen, the song reached its crescendo as April and Maia struck exaggerated poses complete with wavering jazz hands. Skouris burst into laughter, applauding as the dancers embraced and collapsed in an exhausted heap onto their plastic dance floor.

  “Bravo, ladies! Bravo!” Skouris called out, shouting to be heard over the video game’s soundtrack. Her praise at first startled the pair before Maia recognized her adoptive mother’s arrival. She scrambled up from the floor in a newfound burst of energy and crossed the floor, wrapping her arms around Skouris’s midsection.

  “Mommy!” Maia said, propping her chin onto the woman’s side and looking up, her face beaming. “When did you get home?”

  “Just in time to see the finale of American Bandstand, apparently,” Skouris replied, rubbing her hands along Maia’s back and planting a kiss on the top of her blond head.

  Reaching for the remote to mute the television, April bent over and grabbed one corner of the dance mat. She smiled, staring at Skouris and rolling her eyes in mock disgust. “American Bandstand?” she repeated. “You’ve gotta get with the program, big sister.”

  “Yeah,” Maia chimed in. “This is Dance Dance Revolution!”

  “Wow, my mistake,” Skouris said, breaking away from her daughter’s embrace but keeping her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “But, the revolution is over for tonight, okay? Mommy’s had a long day and needs to crash.”

  “That’s okay,” Maia said, nodding her head. “Aunt April said we could stay up late and watch a movie, anyway.”

  Memories of the pair’s last late-night movie raced through Skouris’s mind, complete with popcorn strewn across the living room floor and repeated reminders to lower the volume. She glanced at April, hoping her sister would correctly interpret her silent plea for a reprieve.

  Thankfully, April caught on and offered a surreptitious nod. “How about we back off of that tonight, Maia? All this dancing has kinda worn me out, too.”

  Maia’s momentary expression of disappointment came and went, and she shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, I guess so,” she said. “Will you tell me about your day, Mommy?”

  Skouris forced herself not to frown as she considered that notion. No, she decided, describing the brutal executions of 4400s by another returnee would not make for a child’s bedtime story. Instead, she said, “Well, if I do that, you’ll be asleep in no time. I’ll be there in a minute to tuck you in. Now, go get ready for bed, okay?”

  “Okay,” Maia agreed, turning her face up to Skouris as a prompt for a kiss. Once her mother made good on the request, she bolted across the floor for a kiss from April before jogging toward her room.

  “And lose the toe socks, Maia,” Skouris called after her. “I think you’re on day three for those.”

  “Okay!” the girl’s reply echoed from down the hallway.

  Tucking the rolled-up dance mat next to the television, April reached up to wipe her brow. “That’s a better workout than Pilates. You ought to try it sometime.”

  “Maybe,” Skouris said, crossing toward the foot of the stairs. “It looks like you two are back to normal again. That’s nice to see.”

  April winced, as though wishing Skouris had not broached the topic. She and Maia were fresh off a strain in their newfound bond, after April had attempted to use Maia’s clairvoyant abilities in order to win a bet on a sporting event. When the bet failed to pay off, April accused the young girl of deliberately misinforming her of the game’s outcome while Maia nursed the hurt of feeling used by her aunt. Skouris, of course, sided with Maia, but nonetheless was pleased that the pair had managed to work out their differences on their own.

  “Well, Diana,” April said, an edge creeping into her voice, “sometimes young hearts are quicker to forgive and forget. It’s a lesson we all can learn from, you know?”

  Offering a curt nod, Skouris tried to keep her own tone level. “I think I’ve been more than forgiving lately.”

  “Yeah, you have,” April said, crossing the living room toward the kitchen, “and you’ve also been really great about reminding me of that as often as you can.”

  Inside, Skouris felt herself flinch. Ouch, point taken.

  “All right, that’s fair,” she said, her sister’s remark still poking at her conscience. It was very easy, she knew, for her to fall into the age-old rut of assuming April made nothing but bad choices for herself, rather than trying to see any positive intent behind her sister’s actions. “I’m sorry,” she said, holding up a hand and shaking her head. “Just chalk it up to me being tired. I�
�m tired and I’m on edge, and I’ll just drop it and go to bed.”

  April said nothing for a moment, but finally nodded with a tight-lipped smile. “It’s cool. This is new for both of us.”

  “Yeah, it is,” Skouris replied. “Honestly, April, thanks for being here for Maia. It means a lot to her, and to me.”

  “Ah, no biggie,” April said, her smile widening. “Being the cool aunt works for me. The cool aunt gets to do the fun stuff that the tight-ass mom never does.”

  Skouris chuckled, knowing April’s jab ultimately was good-natured. “Okay, I deserved that one,” she said before heading toward Maia’s room, putting aside her fatigue. It was not difficult to do, as this was one of the true highlights of her day. “I’m coming,” she called out down the hallway, her tone one of gentle teasing, “and you’d better be in bed.”

  “I am,” came Maia’s voice just as Skouris stepped into her daughter’s room. As promised, there was the girl in her nightgown and tucked under the bedclothes, lying on one side and working a pencil back and forth against a page in a bound composition book. Skouris paused at the familiar sight, feeling the momentary chill as she recognized that Maia was not merely doodling into a scratch pad, but instead was writing in her diary.

  The diary.

  “What are you doing, Maia?” she asked.

  “Oh, I’m just working on a story,” the girl replied, closing the notebook as she looked up at her mother’s approach. “It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while.”

  “Can I see?” Skouris asked, feeling a sense of trepidation. She knew that “stories” was the term Maia sometimes used to describe the visions she experienced. Her previous encounters with Maia’s diary had left her shaken and uncertain as she read the girl’s numerous predictions, each written in vague terms as best as Maia was capable of expressing them. Skouris had voiced her initial concerns to Nina Jarvis, who promptly subpoenaed the diary for analysis. Fearing what the journal’s contents might lead NTAC to conclude about her adoptive daughter, Skouris instead decided to submit a forged version of the diary as prepared by Marco Pacella.

  Maia appeared to weigh the request before replying, “It’s not done yet. Can I just tell you about it?”

  “Sure, honey,” Skouris said, taking a seat on the edge of Maia’s bed. “What’s it about?”

  Maia shrugged. “Well, it’s about a girl. A lady, I mean, and she has a very important job, but some people don’t want her to do it.”

  “I see,” Skouris said. This seemed innocuous so far, but that discounted the alarm bells sounding in the back of her mind. “So, your lady is a hero and the bad guys are after her?”

  Pressing her lips into a tight line, Maia frowned as she considered the question. “I’m not sure yet.”

  “You’re not sure if the bad guys are chasing her?”

  “No,” the girl replied, shaking her head. “I’m not sure if the lady is the good guy.”

  The alarms were louder now, but Skouris forced them away, knowing that as long as Maia was in a mood to talk about her visions, she should pursue the conversation. “That’s interesting,” she said. “Can you tell me more about her?”

  Maia closed her eyes for a moment, as though picturing the subject of her visions. “She wears black. That’s why I have to scribble her in with my pencil.” Shifting in the bed, she adjusted her position so that she could sit up. “And, she’s like me.”

  That gave Skouris pause. “She has visions like you do?”

  Shaking her head, Maia said, “I mean, she was brought here like me, with the rest of us.”

  A 4400, Skouris thought, both anxious and fearful at where this was heading. “What else can you tell me? What kind of important job does she have?”

  “I haven’t written that part of the story yet,” Maia said. “I don’t think I like it very much.”

  Uh-oh.

  Leaning forward to place a hand on the girl’s arm, Skouris asked, “Why, Maia?”

  Another shrug. “She does little things that need to be done so bigger things can happen.” Maia paused a moment before adding, “She…serves a purpose.”

  “Well,” Skouris said, “it’s very important to serve a purpose, Maia. I serve a purpose by working at NTAC. You serve a purpose with your gift to see the future. It’s a good thing.”

  Maia looked at her mother as though she had just smelled something disagreeable. “It’s not always a good thing,” she said flatly before releasing a tired sigh and lying back down in the bed. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’m ready to go to sleep.”

  Fighting her impulse to prod deeper into the girl’s visions, Skouris helped Maia get situated and pulled the blanket up to her shoulders. While she wanted to know whether her daughter was indeed seeing Lona Callahan and if she might gain some insight into the woman’s “purpose” with regard to the 4400, she knew that such discussions were best when held on Maia’s terms.

  “Sleep tight, honey. Happy dreams,” Skouris said, kissing Maia’s forehead before rising from the bed. She crossed to the door, turning off the overhead light before pulling the door closed behind her.

  At least one of us should sleep, she thought, her mind now clouded not only with what Maia had told her, but also anticipation of her daughter’s next visions.

  That bath, as well as the wine, sounded much more appealing just now.

  EIGHTEEN

  NTAC

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  THE MEDICAL SECTION’S basement laboratory was a secluded, quiet place, visited by few who did not have specific business there. It was possible that a good number of personnel employed at the Seattle NTAC facility did not even know of the lab’s existence, and that was one of the things Dr. Maxwell Hudson liked about it.

  Here, ensconced within the lab’s comfortable environs, Hudson was free to work virtually free from disruption. On those days where he was not scheduled to see patients and none arrived for walk-in visits, he would come here. Hours might pass in solitude, his only companions being the sounds of equipment or perhaps the music he piped from the CD player in his office. The privacy was therapeutic, a means for him to shut out the demands of his patient care responsibilities and instead concentrate on the pure research that was his first love and the primary reason for which he had elected a medical career in the first place.

  Privacy also carried other benefits, such as being able to conduct a conversation like the one he currently was having.

  “Good evening, Max,” said the voice of Dennis Ryland as NTAC’s deputy director stared out from Hudson’s laptop computer monitor. “Working late tonight?” The videoconferencing software on the portable computer seemed to be running a bit slow, Hudson decided as he watched Ryland’s image jerk and jump. The drag was likely due to the complex set of calculations with which he had tasked the laptop.

  “Hello, Mr. Ryland,” Hudson replied. “I could ask you the same question. What can I do for you?”

  Leaning closer to the webcam pickup on his own computer, Ryland replied, “We’ve confirmed that Lona Callahan, or Alicia Colbern, if you prefer, has never reported to any NTAC medical facility since leaving quarantine. For all intents and purposes, she’s dropped off the face of the earth. You know what that means?”

  Hudson nodded, already feeling a knot forming in his gut. “Of course. She’s never received any injections of the inhibitor.” Glancing to the bottom left corner of his laptop screen, he confirmed that this conversation was taking place on a secure, encrypted channel, which also meant that no record of the call would be stored on any of the servers residing in NTAC’s communications center. He knew that would not stop Ryland from making a recording of the conversation, which was why he had activated his own personal digital recorder before initiating the connection. The small device sat next to the laptop, positioned near one of the computer’s built-in speakers and safely out of sight of its webcam receiver.

  “To say that’s distressing is one hell of an understatement,”
Ryland said. “You can imagine I’ve got some worried folks out here in Washington. We know there are other returnees out there who’ve never reported for medical screenings, and a few of those have proven to be persons of grave concern on the same level as Callahan. If what Baldwin and Skouris are telling me is true, and she does have some kind of invisibility or super speed, then she presents the sort of threat that drove the creation of the inhibitor in the first place.”

  Hudson nodded in agreement. As part of their conditions for being released from quarantine, each 4400 was required to report to an NTAC medical facility every three months, ostensibly to assess their current conditions and to screen for any change in their physical condition that might be attributable to the time they had spent missing.

  Of course, it was only after they were released that the initial reports were received of individual returnees demonstrating extrahuman qualities. NTAC agents investigated these reports, and some of their findings had truly been alarming. Upon examining one of the 4400 who demonstrated such abilities, Hudson had discovered that unlike humans, whose bodies produce four neurotransmitters—chemicals that transfer signals between neurons and other cells within the body—the returnee possessed a fifth such chemical transmitter, which he had dubbed “promicin.”

  Hudson also found this additional property in other returnees, each of whom had demonstrated a different superhuman capacity, and hypothesized that the presence of promicin allowed use of other areas of the brain not accessible to “ordinary” humans. Such revelations, as well as the mysteries yet to be unearthed about the 4400, had driven Dennis Ryland to order the research and creation of a means to somehow hinder or suppress the promicin neurotransmitter. After months of effort, Hudson developed a compound that, when introduced into the body of a returnee, acted to neutralize promicin.

  Suddenly feeling warm even though the lab’s thermostat was set to keep the room cooler than other areas of the medical section, Hudson reached up to loosen his tie. “I agree that she’s a threat,” he said, “but what can I do about it?” Like Ryland, he had seen the preliminary report on Callahan as submitted by agents Baldwin and Skouris. They still were reviewing video footage of her alleged activities in Colorado, but so far the visual evidence pointed to her possessing some kind of cloaking ability, or perhaps an ability to move at incredible speeds.