Invasive Procedures (15 page)

She thought about what she might say if they caught her out of her room. She couldn’t claim to have been looking for the restroom, since there was one near Wyatt’s room she had been using all day. She
could
say she was looking for food. Their meals had been brought to them on trays,
so she wouldn’t be lying if she said she didn’t know where the kitchen was.

She walked in the direction of Yoshida’s office . . . no, his laboratory, where he was building what he believed to be Galen’s mind.

She shuddered. Yoshida was no more sane than Galen was.

She remembered passing a set of double doors on her way to his office and decided to try them. She reached them without incident and pushed on them tentatively. They swung open. The hall beyond was no different from the one she now stood in. Taking a final glance over her shoulder, she stepped into the unknown.

After thirty yards the hall turned to the left. It was then that she heard voices. She stopped, pressed herself against the wall, and listened. The voices were faint—whispery, almost, and sounded as if they were saying the same thing over and over again, like a recording that had been looped. Monica peered around the corner but saw no one. Down that direction, however, light spilled from a doorway into the hall.

She took a few cautionary steps closer and as she did, the voices became more distinct. Closer still, and she realized that what she had perceived to be two voices was actually one. Yoshida’s voice.

Staying out of sight, she drew close to the doorway.

In hushed tones, Yoshida was whispering, “There is no master but the master. I must obey the master. There is no master but the master. I must obey the master.”

He screamed then, and a loud crash sounded. A metal serving tray flew out the doorway and clanged against the opposite wall, clattering to the floor near Monica’s feet.

She put a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.

Yoshida grew louder, more desperate. “There is no master but the master. I must . . . obey the master.”

His voice strained with every word, as if it required all of his strength to speak them.

“There is no . . . master . . . but . . . I will . . .”

Another crash as metal objects fell to the floor.

Monica looked back the way she had come. Someone would hear this. Healers would come. They’d find her here. She had to get back before she was discovered.

Just as she turned to go, Yoshida stumbled out of the room. He was
a wreck, the perpetual smile gone, his eyes wild, his hair unkempt, and worst of all, his whole body was shaking, a trembling that began at the top of his head and extended to the tips of his extremities.

Monica recoiled from him.

He lurched for her and seized her by the arm. “There is no master but the master.”

Monica tried to push him away, but his grip was like iron. He muttered the words again and again, not to her, but through her. She stumbled a step backward but somehow stayed on her feet.

“There is no master but the master.”

She reared back to strike him, to break his hold on her by force, but then his shaking suddenly became violent. His head arched back, his eyes grew slack, and he released her. Then, like a puppet cut from its strings, he fell to the floor with a sickening crack and began flopping like a fish out of water.

He was having a seizure.

Monica’s heart hammered in her chest, but she put the panic aside and acted on instinct. She had been an ER doctor. She knew trauma. Her movements now were automatic. She got down beside him and cradled his head so it wouldn’t strike the floor again.

“Help!” she cried. “Somebody help me!” She had to get him to a bed, off the hard floor. But she couldn’t do it alone. She needed help.

Heavy footsteps sounded, and in seconds Lichen appeared.

“He’s having a seizure,” Monica said. “Help me.”

But instead of helping her Lichen turned on his heels and ran back the way he had come.

“Wait! What are you—”

But he was already gone. Monica sat there stunned as the sound of Lichen’s footsteps died away. She looked back at Yoshida. His body twitched and rattled and banged itself against the linoleum. She held him tightly, using all her strength to minimize the harm he did himself. But it was no good. His head still struck the floor. His back still arched. His legs still kicked.

There was shouting and more footsteps, and then Lichen reappeared, this time with Galen, who wore silk pajamas, slippers, and a bathrobe.

“He was shaking,” Monica said, “talking to himself. Then he fell—”

Galen got down beside her and gently nudged her away. He grabbed
Yoshida’s head, cradled it in his hands, licked his lips, and then bent down and pressed his lips against Yoshida’s forehead.

Monica watched, mystified, as Galen held that position.

Then, to her astonishment, Yoshida’s body began to relax. His feet stopped kicking. His arms slunk to his sides. His body went limp. He was like a machine being turned off with all of its parts slowly pulled to the ground by gravity.

The kiss ended, and Galen sat back on the floor, head cocked to the side, watching Yoshida with concern.

Yoshida blinked his eyes open. For several seconds, he was perfectly still, staring up at the ceiling. Then, ever so slowly, the corners of his mouth turned up into that familiar smile. He turned his head to the side, saw Galen’s face and said pleasantly, “Hello, master.”

Monica ran back to her room in a sprint. She didn’t stop when Galen called to her. She didn’t stop when she nearly ran into Stone in the hall. She didn’t stop until she reached Wyatt’s room, threw open the door, ran inside, and locked the door behind her.

Wyatt woke with a start. “Mom?”

She went to the bed, got under the covers, and held him tightly.

No one came to the door.

Wyatt didn’t speak.

And after what felt like hours, Monica fell asleep.

Director Eugene Irving was not a man to be trifled with. To serve as the director of a federal agency such as the BHA, one needed balls of steel, plenty of ambition, and a few friends of political importance. Irving had all three—or all four, depending on whether you counted the steely balls separately.

His appointment as director had been partially due to his performance at the FBI, where behind his back his colleagues had called him the Charmer, as in snake, and partially because his cousin was a Republican congressman from Kentucky with plenty of pull on the National Intelligence Committee. Irving had a gift for making his superiors believe that he was the only man below them who recognized their greatness. And since such a man made for good company, Irving’s superiors were eager to take him along with them as they rose through the ranks of the FBI. In short, he had ridden several men’s coattails to a position of power.

Now, if only he could show the
current
powers-that-be—that is to say, the administration—how effective he was in his current post, he might actually have a future beyond it. As it was, he was only days away from a forced resignation. These Healers were going to destroy him.

He had not yet actually told anyone outside the agency all they had learned about the Healers, and he had given his agents strict instructions to the do the same. They would comply. None of them wanted another
agency to start a turf war. But secrecy, Irving knew, could only be maintained for so long. The FBI, which leaked to the press like a sieve, had taught Irving that the almighty printed page could topple a man’s career in a single day.

He had a plan. A good plan. It had been to deal with the threat himself, alone, and
then
go to the administration to show them that he had not only discovered a serious problem but also handled it so deftly that they would see in him the potential for greatness. We need not worry our pretty little heads with Eugene Irving on the job. Why isn’t he the defense secretary, Mr. President? Why isn’t he on your cabinet, Mr. President?

It had been a scenario Irving had played out many times in his mind. He had been waiting for the Healers. Or at least something
like
them. Something dangerous. Something that he could throw a lasso around, wrestle to the ground, and subdue appropriately. A trophy. A means to express his might, his competence.

But as he sat through the status meeting that morning, it was becoming increasingly clearer to Irving that the Healers were
not
the golden ticket he had long been waiting for. In fact, they were becoming just the opposite.

“I thought you said Healers were going back to this man’s house,” Irving said, keeping the fury in his voice only barely contained so that they thought him civil but still feared him.

The BHA agents around the conference room table looked at him and then back at Agent Riggs, who stood at the front of the room, giving the report.

“You said,” Director Irving went on, giving each syllable the proper emphasis, “that Healers were going to go to the home of this . . .” he looked down at the paper in front of him and found the name, “this Richard Schneider to give him a countervirus. That’s why I had agents stake out the place. That’s why they’ve been sitting there around the clock for three days now. Because
you
told me that Healers would be going to this location. And yet Healers have
not
gone to this location. Am I hearing you correctly?”

As Agent Riggs nodded, Director Irving thought how unfortunate it was that Riggs was African American. Irving had no bias against his race, of course, but he did enjoy making people blush. And right now, the blackness of Riggs’s skin was denying Irving the sweet pleasure of seeing
someone’s face go from white to beet red at having been taught his place in the universe of Eugene Irving.

Riggs cleared his throat. “Sir, the patient in question was the source of our intelligence. Our suspicion—”

“Your suspicion?” Irving cut in, his voice icy. “The God-fearing government of the United States of America does not pay you to have suspicions, Agent Riggs. Suspicions do not solve crimes. Suspicions do not put bad people in prison. Suspicions do not allow old ladies to feel safe and sleep well at night. This”—he pounded on the table for emphasis—“is an agency of action. We do not waste time on unsubstantiated conjectures or unfounded intelligence. These Healers are a threat. All of our efforts should go into finding them, not sitting around waiting for them to come to us. They’re as big as horses, for crying out loud. They shouldn’t be too hard to pick out of a crowd. And until we find them, until we stop them and contain this virus, this nation is in danger. Now, I want results. I want Healers in custody. Yesterday. Do I make myself clear?”

Irving’s face was as stern and demanding as he could muster, but inside, he was beaming. The speech had been a bit melodramatic in places, but overall it showed great political promise. I can work a crowd, he thought. He imagined himself standing at the pulpit of the Republican National Convention, his arms outstretched, his fingers giving the
V
for victory, the deafening roar of the crowd below him, and tens of thousands of balloons and confetti raining down around him. He would have to give some thought to a running mate.

“Perhaps we should ask other agencies for help.”

Director Irving was brought back to reality. Someone at the table had spoken. He looked around and saw that everyone was staring at the virologist from Fort Detrick. Frank Hartman.

“Excuse me?” Irving said.

Frank leaned forward. “I said, maybe it’s time to involve other agencies. We might have some more luck locating the Healers if we had more warm bodies out there looking for them. We could notify the FBI, the LAPD, even the NSA. I’m sure with their help, we’d have a better chance of success.”

Irving was so shocked by the audacity of this man, by the very idea that someone would think it appropriate to counsel the director of the agency in front of other agents, that Irving sat there, mouth agape. What
he wanted to do was reach across the table and smack the man. But after such a moving speech, he didn’t want to spoil the moment, and so he remained as cool as possible. “Dr. Hartman, you’re new at the agency. You’ve only been here a few days, so I will forgive your speaking out of turn. If I want the advice of someone unfamiliar with the operations and capabilities of this agency, I’ll ask my mother-in-law. If you have opinions, I ask that you keep them to yourself.”

To Irving’s even greater surprise, this did not shut the man up.

“What Riggs was trying to say,” Frank said, “about his suspicion, which is also my suspicion, is that Healers did not go to the home of Richard Schneider because they knew agents were watching the house.”

The agents around the table looked from Frank to Irving as if expecting Irving to pull a gun and use it.

“What I mean is, I think someone told the Healers that agents were watching the house. Somehow they know the BHA is looking for them.”

It was Irving’s turn to blush, not from embarrassment but from barely contained fury. “Perhaps you weren’t listening, Dr. Hartman, but what you
think
and what you
suspect
is of no importance.
We
will solve this problem.
We
will find the Healers. I think I speak for my fellow agents here when I say that we don’t appreciate you telling us we’re incompetent.”

“That’s not what I—”

“That’s precisely what you said. To imply that we need to ask for help is to imply that we can’t do the job ourselves.” Before Frank could respond, Irving stood and faced them all. “Unlike our visitor here, I know that each of you is capable. I have full confidence in you. We will do our duty. And we will do it our way, the right way.

Irving left the room before another word could be spoken. Always leave them wanting more, he thought.

As he moved down the corridor back toward his office, he couldn’t get Frank Hartman out of his mind. The man was becoming more of a burden than a help. If this kept up, he’d have no choice but to remove him from the agency. That would take a little doing, of course. The Defense Department had cleared Frank’s temporary reassignment—even though they hadn’t understood exactly what that assignment was—and sending Frank packing back to Fort Detrick without a legitimate reason would be a tricky business indeed.