Wet Work Read online

  On the screen, Ryland paused, looking away from the screen as though contemplating a next move. After a moment, he asked, “How’s the inhibitor working?”

  Hudson shrugged. “I’ve personally overseen the administration of the drug to more than a hundred returnees, the majority of those who settled in the Seattle area after leaving quarantine. Reports from other NTAC offices show that roughly two-thirds of the entire 4400 population have been given at least one dose, with most receiving additional inoculations during their scheduled checkups. That still leaves around fifteen hundred people out there. So far, there haven’t been reports of anything that might be a side effect, but I’m still skeptical. You know I think we rushed deploying this.” Hudson had resisted using the compound without further testing, but was overruled by Ryland, who viewed any possible negative consequences as acceptable risks.

  “It couldn’t be helped,” the deputy director replied. “There’s too much at stake for us to stand by while returnees all over the world manifest abilities we don’t understand and for which we might not have any means of protecting ourselves. The inhibitor is our first line of defense, but it’s only a start. What if there are more 4400s out there with abilities like Callahan’s? What if they start to organize? We’re going to need something bigger and better if we’re to have any hope of combating that type of threat. This isn’t just a national security issue, Dr. Hudson. The fate of the entire world might be at stake.”

  Frowning, Hudson leaned closer to his laptop. “You’re talking about something more aggressive.”

  “Absolutely,” Ryland said. “The inhibitor works fine for what it is, and that’s all thanks to you, Doctor, but we need something we can use in an offensive capacity. We need a means of subduing a 4400 with nonlethal force. Something that could neutralize their ability quickly in a tactical situation. And we need it now.”

  Hudson did not reply immediately, instead pausing to ponder Ryland’s notion. “I suppose there’s a possibility that a more potent mixture of the current inhibitor, bonded with a fast-acting tranquilizer compound, could be created, but I’ll need to research that in order to better understand any further risks.” The idea did little to calm his uncertainty. There still were too many unanswered questions, not only about the inhibitor but also promicin itself. It was still early enough in the inhibitor distribution process that side effects could still manifest themselves in any or all of the returnees. If there was something defective about the drug, creating a more potent strain might exacerbate any potential dangers posed by its current version, or bring about all-new problems. He was traversing dangerous waters here, and there were no charts or maps to guide him. Without thinking, Hudson reached up to scratch his chin, which harbored noticeable stubble.

  That’s what you get for shaving at four in the damned morning. Get a life, why don’t you?

  Slim chance of that happening anytime soon, he knew.

  “We’ll manage whatever risks you might find, Doctor,” Ryland said, “but consider this your top priority. We’ve got agents tracking Callahan right now, and I don’t want to lose any of them because they couldn’t defend themselves against her ability, or the abilities of any other 4400 who sticks his head up.” He tapped his right forefinger on his desk for emphasis. “I want daily updates on your progress, and I don’t have to remind you that this is top secret. You’re not to discuss this with anyone. Are we clear?”

  Resigned to the situation, Hudson nodded. “Yes, Mr. Ryland.”

  Seemingly pleased with that answer, the deputy director leaned back in his chair, and his expression softened. “I know this isn’t easy for you, Max. You’re bothered because you’re a decent human being, but you have to realize that we’re facing extraordinary circumstances here and we need to be ready. We’re working toward a greater good, and sometimes the path to such goals is a difficult one to travel. You understand that, right?”

  Again, Hudson offered a conciliatory nod. “I do.”

  “Okay, then. I’m counting on you, Max. Keep me informed.” With that, Ryland pressed a control on his computer keyboard, severing the connection.

  Satisfied that he once again was alone, Hudson reached for the digital recorder from its place of concealment and pressed the button to halt its covert recording. A quick check of the device’s virtual memory confirmed that he had logged the entire conversation.

  If things went bad and this project ever saw the light of day or—heaven forbid—something disastrous happened to the 4400 because of what he had been ordered to do, Hudson would have at least one extra card to play once the blame game and the finger-pointing started.

  NINETEEN

  NTAC

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  THE DOOR TO the Theory Room opened, and Baldwin turned to see Skouris enter, favoring as she did so her left foot.

  “What happened to you?” he asked.

  Skouris scowled as she made her way to the cluttered conference table at the center of the room and took a seat in one of the empty chairs. “I was working out this morning, and twisted my ankle on the treadmill.” She shook her head in disgust. “I think I need new running shoes.”

  Moving from behind his desk, Marco Pacella crossed the room toward Skouris, grabbing an empty chair and sliding it across the floor next to her. “Elevation will help any swelling. Here, put your foot up. Ice will help, too. I’ve got some in the freezer.”

  “It’s really not that bad,” Skouris said, though she did raise her leg to rest her foot on the chair. “This’ll be fine, thanks.” Casting a look over Marco’s shoulder, she smiled and added, “Though a cup of coffee sounds good right about now.”

  “Coming right up,” Marco replied, turning and heading to the far corner that was home to the room’s coffeemaker, which so far as Baldwin knew had been in constant operation since the day the 4400 arrived. He had to cover his mouth to hide the slight smile tugging at his lips as he watched Marco in action. While the young agent’s attraction to Skouris was one of the worst-kept secrets in all of NTAC and possibly even the entire U.S. government, so far as Baldwin knew the feelings were not mutual.

  Considering what we do for a living, he mused, it’s not as though it’s the weirdest thing going on around here.

  Baldwin waited while Marco handed Skouris a mug of steaming coffee, noting that the theorist without asking had added her preferred amounts of milk and sugar to the brew before bringing it to her. Once that was accomplished and all three of them were seated at the table, he looked to Marco. “Okay, you called us down to the Bat-cave. What’ve you got?”

  Even as the words left his mouth, Baldwin knew they sounded harsher than he had intended. He still was irritated at what he had read in the preliminary reports submitted by the NTAC teams in Denver, who still were going over every inch of ground around Eric Wheaton’s cabin. Other than a bunch of ATV tracks, a few hunting blinds, and a dead coyote, they had yet to find any sign of Lona Callahan or anyone else who might have killed Wheaton. With that in mind, Baldwin was counting on Marco and his team to glean any kind of useful information from the video footage of the returnee’s death, as right now it was their most promising avenue of investigation.

  Appearing to ignore the annoyance underlying Baldwin’s question, Marco smiled, his features warming with unbridled pride as he reached across the table’s assortment of files and fast-food containers to retrieve one of the ubiquitous remote controls. “That glitch on the video feed from Wheaton’s cabin was definitely no glitch.”

  Adjusting her elevated foot, Skouris shifted to a more comfortable position in her chair. “You found something?”

  “Oh, yeah. Big-time,” Marco said, aiming the remote at the large screen on the back wall. “Check it out. If something occurs once, then it’s an anomaly. Twice, well that might be a coincidence, unless you’re me, since I don’t believe in coincidences. But when it happens three times, then you’ve got a trend.” On the screen, seven different windows opened, each bearing a stilled image of
what Baldwin recognized as varying views of Eric Wheaton’s cabin and the area surrounding it.

  Marco continued. “Between Denver NTAC and the different news affiliates, we ended up with about a dozen different video sources. These are the seven with the best angles of Wheaton as he was escorted out, and our ‘glitch’ occurred simultaneously on every single source.”

  Gesturing toward the screen, Baldwin asked, “Same spot? Behind Wheaton?”

  “Precisely,” Marco replied, nodding. “It took all night to index and time-synch everything and wash it through our image-enhancement software. We’ve watched this thing a dozen times and we’re still not sure what we’re looking at.”

  For the first time, Baldwin noticed that Wingate and P.J. were conspicuous by their absence. Looking around, he asked, “Speaking of Larry and Curly, where are they?”

  “I sent them home to grab some sleep,” Marco said. “You can tell when they’re tired, because they start picking at each other. It’s embarrassing to watch, really.”

  As though sensing the meeting going off the rails, Skouris said, “And we promise you can go home, too, as soon as we’re finished here, okay?”

  Marco nodded, adjusting his glasses. “Yeah, right. Okay, watch this.”

  Leaning forward in his seat, Baldwin blinked as Marco dimmed the room lighting in order for them to better see the images on the screen, his eyes adjusting to the depiction of the glorious Colorado morning sky from the previous day. Frozen in place at the center of the screen was Eric Wheaton, just as Baldwin remembered from yesterday but now benefiting from a far greater clarity of video definition thanks to Marco’s enhancement efforts. Grimy and stone-faced, Wheaton stood motionless next to a pair of uniformed officers.

  “So, start it up,” Baldwin said after a moment, reaching to take a sip of his coffee.

  Pointing to the screen, Marco replied, “It is started. It’s playing in super super slo-mo. See how the cop on the left looks like he’s asleep? He’s midway through a blink.”

  Skouris said, “This isn’t the same footage we saw yesterday.”

  “Nope, this one comes from a different local affiliate. It’s the best of the bunch, but like I said, don’t get your hopes up.” Several seconds passed before Marco pointed again to the screen. “Okay, here we go. Watch closely. And…now.”

  A blur from the left side of the image caught Baldwin’s eye, fogging the barely moving figures of Wheaton and the officers as though the camera operator had smudged a greasy thumb across the lens. The haze continued to wipe across the image, stopping only when it reached the edge of the left officer’s uniform sleeve. The smudge then reappeared, but only against the background of the projected image, leaving the human figures unsullied.

  “What’s happening?” Baldwin asked.

  “That’s the real question,” Marco replied. “It’s not a technical screwup. That’s the actual image.”

  Watching Wheaton’s expressionless face, Baldwin blinked as the blurred mass obscured it for a moment. “Wait,” he started.

  “Whatever it is,” Skouris said, cutting him off, “it’s moving closer to him?”

  Marco nodded. “You got it. Now, look closely at Wheaton’s neck. As soon as that blur goes away, we see the same dark line against his skin that we saw yesterday.”

  “But it’s not a crisp line,” Baldwin said. “It’s fuzzy. Can you clean that up any?”

  “Trust me, this is as good as it gets,” Marco said, once more aiming the remote at the TV and pausing the image. “Now, check this out.” He pressed a button, and another window opened, settling alongside the current footage of Wheaton. “This is video of Lona Callahan from that bank ATM last year. The quality’s not as good as the Wheaton stuff, but we were still able to clean it up.”

  On the screen, Baldwin recognized the scene. Lona Callahan, wearing the clothes she had been given prior to leaving NTAC quarantine, standing on the sidewalk talking to the pair of CIA agents. Neither he nor Skouris said anything as Marco advanced the footage, moving the image past the opening moments of Callahan’s brief scuffle before freezing it at the point the female agent drew her pistol and aimed it at Callahan.

  Pausing for apparent effect, he turned toward Baldwin and Skouris. “Now you see her.” He pressed another button on the remote. “Now you don’t.”

  Baldwin watched as the footage resumed advancing. Frame by frame, Callahan began moving toward the female agent, paying no apparent heed to the weapon aimed at her. Now, Baldwin was not surprised when Callahan seemed to vanish, replaced by a smudge or blur not unlike the one in the Wheaton footage.

  “Oh, damn,” he breathed.

  When Callahan appeared to materialize directly in front of the agent—having somehow avoided being shot by the agent—Marco let the footage resume playing, allowing the woman to disarm and put down the agent at normal speed. The video continued playing until Callahan turned and dealt with the agent’s male partner in similar expedient fashion, which included another supposed glitch in the footage as she closed the distance to the man in order to disable him. Once that was done, Marco paused the playback before turning back to Baldwin and Skouris.

  “Pretty cool, huh?” he asked.

  “So, Callahan killed Wheaton,” Skouris said, nodding toward the screen. “It has to be her, but I don’t even want to guess what’s going on there.”

  His hands gesticulating as though possessed of their own will, Marco said, “Oh, I can guess plenty, if nobody else wants to. It could be hyperactive speed, but who knows what kind of physical toll that might take on a person’s body. You have to rule out mass hypnosis, because that wouldn’t fool a camera lens. Can’t really say invisibility because we’re seeing something.”

  When he stopped, Baldwin saw the look of hesitation on his face, and sensed that the younger agent was reluctant to offer his preferred theory. “Or?” he prompted.

  “Or,” Marco said, shifting in his seat, “I can’t completely rule out a manipulation of spacetime.”

  “Spacetime?” Skouris repeated, her brow furrowing in confusion.

  “I really hope you’re going to explain this in English,” Baldwin said.

  Hunching over in his chair, Marco used his hands to indicate an area of space before him. “Okay, every event occurs in a specific three-dimensional space and at a specific time, which we consider as a fourth dimension separate from the others. Kind of like Rod Serling talks about in The Twilight Zone.” He paused, frowning. “Wait, that was a fifth dimension.”

  “Sorry to break it to you, Marco,” Baldwin said, “but the Fifth Dimension was a band.”

  Marco smiled. “Oh, right! I’d forgotten about them. Sweet music.”

  Holding up her hand, Skouris said, “If either of you starts singing ‘The Age of Aquarius,’ I’ll shoot you both.”

  “It wasn’t ‘The Age of Aquarius,’” Marco countered, sounding a bit irked. “It was just ‘Aquarius,’ and was later released on an album called…”

  “In the kneecaps,” Skouris said.

  Nodding, Marco said, “And we’re done with that.” Drawing a calming breath, he resumed his impromptu dissertation. “Without getting into time-dilation theories and a discussion of the four-dimensional manifold of Minkowski space, let’s just say it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that our suspect here—which we presume is Lona Callahan—is able to move through space without being connected to time, or at least a rate of time that’s equal to our own.”

  “So, she can move back and forth in time?” Baldwin asked, feeling a headache coming on as he did his best to grasp even the essentials of the information Marco was imparting with ease.

  Marco shrugged. “I don’t think so, but that’s not what I said. She’d still experience time, just differently than we do. She might be able to…unstick herself from normal time and do whatever it is that she does.”

  “So to her,” Skouris said, “we might all be frozen in place, and to us she might appear to be moving incredibly fast.�
� She nodded toward the screen to emphasize her point.

  Obviously impressed with her ability to keep up with the conversation, Marco offered an approving smile. “Exactly.”

  “Isn’t that just perfect,” Skouris said, leaning back in her chair. “Not only do we have a 4400 who’s a trained assassin and stone-cold killer, but she also comes back with the ability to bend time and space?”

  “Well, it’s just a theory,” Marco said.

  Reaching up to rub his temples in a feeble attempt to ward off the ache behind his eyes, Baldwin considered the implication of Marco’s hypothesis. Would the people from the future deliberately equip a returnee with an ability in order to further her natural talents as an accomplished assassin? Yes, he decided. Of course, Callahan’s existence also begged the question of whether there might be others like her, and what agenda they might serve.

  He shook his head, trying to clear it of the larger issues. Right now, their only chance at success had to be focusing on Lona Callahan, the fugitive.

  Yeah, Baldwin reminded himself. One problem at a time.

  TWENTY

  SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS

  “I DON’T CARE what you heard yesterday. Everything’s changed. We need to present a counterbid this morning or we’ll be out of the running by lunch. If that happens, you’ll be out of a job by dinner. Got it?”

  Without waiting for a reply from the distressed head of his company’s Contracts Negotiation Division, who had by virtue of rank and position been the one to call him with the latest bit of unsettling news, Lynn Norton terminated the call and returned the cell phone to the pocket of his suit jacket. He took a deep breath, trying to force away his irritation if only for a brief moment, knowing that he would spend the better part of the coming day dealing with the information he had just been given. It went without saying that modern business moved at a faster tempo than even five years ago, but now it seemed never to stop. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, weekends, holidays…it never relented. Somewhere in the world, someone always wanted something.