Set in the Preston/Child series universe, this was written for a fan-fic contest with the prompt "I reject your reality and substitute my own". It is an AU tag to Reliquary, and features the characters Special Agent Pendergast and Lieutenant D'Agosta. The question I wanted to answer in a different reality was "What would happen if Kawakita told an outsider about the Mbwun virus?"
Disclaimer:The characters of Pendergast, D'Agosta, Frock, and Kawakita are the property of the very talented Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child. This was all just for fun.
Rated for gore and language.
The Thin Blue Line
A short gust of wind rattled the skeletal branches of the trees, startling Benny Brigham. He paused, listening, his breath pluming in the cold night air. Nothing. He scanned the area, searching for any unwanted observers, but the place was completely deserted. With a gruff chuckle he flipped up his collar against the cold night air and continued his journey.
Midnight, Central Park. Not the safest time or place to be making this trip, but he had an exchange to make. An exchange… The idea caused him to snort in disgust. Such an errand was quite a step down from his usual duties as one of the Family's most valued enforcers. Formerly valued, he reminded himself. Not anymore. He knew this was just the beginning of his punishment, the cost of his recent, astronomical fuck-up, but the thought of the Boss' thinly veiled threats at the last meeting reminded him how grateful he should be to still be walking anywhere.
A few yards from the Ramble, at the scheduled meeting place, Benny paused again, slowly scanning his surroundings. It wouldn't do to encounter one of this City's finest, out on a late night patrol, especially considering this particular errand. He chuckled again. Putting this city and finest together was a true contradiction. He knew plenty of cops that were just as crooked as him. Some even more so, but they, like the Family, stuck together, covered for each other, and were even more protective of their own.
When he was positive he was alone, he settled onto a nearby bench to wait, pulling a cigarette from the pack in his coat pocket and lighting it. He drew in a lungful of the acrid smoke and slowly exhaled, contemplating how his life had so recently gone to shit. This little task would be merely a drop in the bucket on the way to regaining his status within the organization. It had all been going so well. Respect, reputation, money, and then…
A rustling noise in the undergrowth behind him quickly brought Benny back to the present. He turned, scanning the darkness, unable to detect any further movement.
"Who's there?" he called, dropping his cigarette and reaching for the .45 ACP in his shoulder holster. Silence.
"Tropchek? Is that you? Cut the crap, I don't have all night." He pointed the weapon towards the origin of the sound and, glancing back and forth, waited for his contact to appear. A low growl broke the silence, raising the hairs on the back of Benny's neck. Two amber, glowing eyes appeared, staring straight at Benny from the darkness of the Ramble.
It's just a damn dog.
"Go away. Get! Hyah!" Benny shouted, waving his arms.
The eyes blinked once, and then started to rise until they were nearly level with Benny's own.
That's no fucking dog…
Benny pointed his gun and fired. He waited, expecting to hear a yelp of pain and whatever it was hit the ground. Silence. He started to back away, his gun still pointed at the undergrowth. His eyes searched the darkness, ready to fire again at the first sign of movement. More noise came from the direction of the Ramble. Seized by panic, Benny turned and ran. He had only covered a few yards when his foot caught a downed tree limb and he went sprawling. He quickly scrambled to his feet and searched the darkness, his gun trembling in his hands. Suddenly, something clamped onto his shoulder with a vice-like grip. He screamed, spun around and knocked the dark figure to the ground. He pointed his gun at it and almost pulled the trigger before he realized it was a man dressed in a hooded jacket. The man raised himself to a half crouch and slowly raised his gloved hands.
"Benny Brigham?" the man asked, his voice strained.
"Ray Tropchek?" He nodded and Benny let out a sigh of relief. He tucked his gun back into the holster, feeling slightly foolish.
"What the Hell were you shooting at? Do you want to bring the cops down on us?" Ray asked, straightening up and fastidiously brushing himself off. His face was still obscured in shadow.
"A dog, I think. It looked like it was going to attack me."
"A dog? From the way you were acting I thought it was something serious."
Benny shrugged, embarrassed. Ray laughed.
"I never thought someone with your reputation would scare that easy. Feeling a bit nervous, Benny? Then again, I would be, too, if I was in your position."
"What do you mean?" asked Benny, a cold chill settling in the pit of his stomach. Ray gave a dry chuckle.
"What you did, putting The Family at risk. Not a position I envy in the least." Benny felt a surge of anger.
"Yeah? And what would you have done?"
"You forgot one of the most important rules, Benny. Always identify your target. You've made a lot of people very, very angry."
"Look, asshole, I don't care what you think. I don't have all night. I'm here to make an exchange, not to listen to your bullshit! Now, do you have the item?"
"No."
"'No'? What the Hell do you mean, 'no'?"
"I have something much more interesting." Ray withdrew a strange looking knife from his pocket and slowly raised his head. Benny froze, feeling as if he had suddenly been plunged into a nightmare. His instincts were screaming at him to run, but he was unable to move, unable to look away…
Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta, puffing slightly after his hurried stroll, surveyed the taped off crime scene. He paused a minute to catch his breath before walking over to the barrier. He flashed his shield to the officer on security duty, ducked under the tape and made his way to the cluster of SOC techs a few yards away.
"Is the M.E. here yet?" he asked a young woman in OCME coveralls.
"Yep. He's with the body now. Or what's left of it. This way, Lieutenant." He followed her over to the edge of the Ramble, where the M.E. was kneeling next to what at first appeared to be a pile of rags. Upon closer inspection, D'Agosta realized that it was a mangled, headless corpse. The M.E. turned and rose to his feet as they approached.
"Ah, Lieutenant D'Agosta. What brings you out on a night like this?"
"Dr. Jackson," said D'Agosta with a curt nod, trying not to look at the thing which had recently held the M.E.'s attention. Jackson smiled humorlessly.
"Someone was ungracious enough to leave us another mess."
"Third one this month," muttered D'Agosta.
"Yes. Decapitated and eviscerated, and the head is missing. I'm having the SOC team search the Ramble to see if they can find it, but I'm not holding out much hope. The head appears to have been removed with a rather rough implement. The same implement, it would seem, used to make the other wounds on the body."
"Wonderful. We've got ourselves a real sicko on the loose." D'Agosta turned to watch the SOC crew search, trying to ignore the twisting sensation in the pit of his stomach. Soon he saw one of the detectives who had been observing the OCME crew start to walk towards him.
"Detective Vale. Anything to report?"
"I'm afraid not." He took a step closer and lowered his voice.
"If you don't mind my asking, Lieutenant, have you considered that these new murders might be related to some other, uh, not-so-recent murders?"
"What are you talking about?"
"The decapitation murders last spring? Wisher and Bitterman? The Subway Massacre?" D'Agosta grunted.
"I doubt it. The ones responsible for those killings are dead." But what if…? D'Agosta shook his head to clear away the thought. "What else have you found?"
"Well, a preliminary identification, based on the driver's license found on the victim. Benjamin Brigham." D'Agosta grunted in surprise and quickly turned to stare at the corpse.
"Benny Brigham? Well, well…"
"You know him?"
"Yeah. We have quite a file on him down at the precinct. Multiple arrests, no convictions. He has…had ties to some powerful people. Organized crime, although that's never been 'proven'." D'Agosta laughed bitterly. "They were barely able to get him out of his last mess, though."
"What mess?"
"He was indicted in the deaths of three undercover officers, two NYPD and one FBI. Lawyers got him off, though. 'Insufficient evidence'."
"Truly unfortunate," said a familiar, mellifluous voice.
D'Agosta turned in surprise. A tall, pale, thin man in a black suit was staring back at him with an unreadable expression, his silvery eyes glittering in the wash of lights that illuminated the crime scene. D'Agosta froze for a brief moment before responding.
"Pendergast?"
"Vincent. Delighted to see you again." Pendergast offered his hand, which D'Agosta, after a moment's hesitation, shook heartily.
"Same here. What brings you out here?"
"When I heard of the, ah, unfortunate incident, I arrived as quickly as I could. I, too, have noticed the frequency of this type of killing in recent weeks." D'Agosta noticed that Vale was watching their conversation with a look of annoyance.
"And who are you?" he asked Pendergast with a measure of suspicion.
"Special Agent Pendergast, FBI." Vale immediately looked unhappy.
"I am not here to disrupt your case, Detective. I need to speak to the Lieutenant. In private." Vale stared at Pendergast for a moment before moving off to speak to the SOC team. D'Agosta turned to Pendergast with alarm.
"Is it--?"
Pendergast raised one hand to silence him before turning and moving away from the crime scene at a brisk pace. After one final look, D'Agosta followed. When they were out of sight of the scene, Pendergast stopped and turned to D'Agosta. The expression on his face caused D'Agosta to stop dead in his tracks.
"I'm afraid, Vincent, that the matter we attended to earlier this year has not been completely resolved."
"But I thought... we had sealed them all in the tunnel. The explosives should have taken care of everything. How did they escape?"
"I don't believe this is the work of the Wrinklers. I am almost certain that they have been eradicated."
"But who--?"
"These new attacks are not random. The victims all have something in common."
"Cop killers," D'Agosta said in a low voice. Pendergast nodded.
"So we have a vigilante, copying the M.O. of the Wrinkler attacks…" He gave a sigh of relief. "At least it's not--."
"I'm afraid, Vincent, that the situation is not quite so simple."
"What do you mean?"
Pendergast reached into his coat pocket and handed D'Agosta a cream-colored business card.
"We cannot speak freely here. Meet me at this address tomorrow night at 7 o'clock, and I will tell you what I have discovered." Pendergast turned and quickly disappeared into the night. D'Agosta stared at the card in his hand for several minutes, a distinct feeling of unease growing within him. Finally he pocketed the card and headed back to the crime scene.
Vale was waiting for him when he returned.
"Find something?"
"A witness."
"You're kidding?"
"One Ray Tropchek. He won't tell us why he happened to be here, but he did see what happened, or so he says." Vale led D'Agosta over to a short, stout, bespectacled man in a bad toupee. He was seated on one of the park benches, huddled in his bulky coat and shaking visibly.
"Mr. Tropchek? Lieutenant D'Agosta. I understand that you witnessed what occurred here tonight. I'll need to ask you a couple of questions—."
"It was awful," said Tropchek, sounding as if he were close to tears. "I mean, you hear about all these horrible things that happen in this city, but I never believed it until…" His nasal voice had risen in pitch until it was almost a squeak. D'Agosta studied him for a moment before continuing. He lowered his voice and asked as gently as he could, "what did you see?"
"I was walking towards the Ramble when I heard the gunshot. I was going to leave when I heard someone running. Pretty soon I saw him. He fell, got up and looked around, and that's when another guy came up behind him. He screamed, but then it looked like he recognized the guy and they started talking. I couldn't really hear what they were saying, but all of a sudden the second guy takes something out of his coat pocket--I think it was a knife—and he hit the first guy across the neck with it. The first guy fell to the ground and then…" Tropchek drew in a shuddering breath. "…the second guy leaned over him and started to…tear at him with the knife. He was making these horrible sounds and…when he stood up he was holding… it was the guy's head. What kind of person cuts off another guy's head?!" Tropchek's voice had risen to a shriek and he was drawing stares from some of the SOC crew. Vale waved them away.
"Please, Mr. Tropchek, try to calm yourself. We'll get you out of here as soon as possible, but we need your help. Have you ever seen either of the two men before?"
Tropchek took another deep breath. "I…I couldn't see them all that clear. The first guy was big, beefy, looked like a tough customer. I was…surprised that the second guy…took him out so easy."
"Why?"
"He was tall, skinny, didn't look that threatening, except…you'll think I'm nuts. Hell, I think I'm nuts after what I saw."
"What did you see?"
"His…eyes. He looked right at me before he walked off into the Ramble, and they…glowed, like an animal's eyes shine when you catch them in the headlights, except there wasn't enough light to make them do that…" Tropchek caught the look on Vale's face. "…but that's what I saw, I swear!"
"Mr. Tropchek," began D'Agosta. "I understand. Central Park, at night, you were scared…"
"I--."
"Why were you there, Mr. Tropchek?" Tropchek turned to Vale, an indignant look momentarily replacing the fear on his face.
"I don't believe I need to answer that—."
"Guy like you, obviously not a regular nighttime visitor…were you looking for something? Your drug contact--?"
"Certainly not! I have never--!"
"Here to meet someone? Benny Brigham, maybe?"
"How…how did you know--?" Tropchek sputtered.
"You just told me," said Vale with a smug smile. "Now, why were you meeting Brigham?"
"I was supposed to…I can't tell you…"
"Personally we could care less how you got mixed up with the likes of Benny Brigham," D'Agosta interrupted. "We just need to why you—and Brigham—were here in the first place."
Tropchek stared at the ground as his face turned bright red.
"I got into a bit of financial trouble. I was offered a chance to clear the debt, if I picked up a package and delivered it to Brigham. That's all! I don't know what was in the package, or--."
"Who told you to meet him here?"
"The…his boss, I guess. I just got the written instructions by courier. I never talked to anyone directly."
"Did you ever meet Brigham before tonight?"
"No, never. I didn't even know that was him until you told me."
"Where is the package?" asked Vale.
"I guess I dropped it somewhere, when I ran away from that…thing." Vale sighed and rolled his eyes.
"Thank you, Mr. Tropchek. I'll have one of the officers take you home, but I expect to see you down at the precinct house tomorrow to give us a full statement. Is that clear?"
"Y-yes, Detective." Vale beckoned to one of the officers who led Tropchek off to his patrol car. Vale turned to D'Agosta.
"Well, what do you think? The Boss decided he's had enough and sends Brigham out to get killed?"
"And conveniently sends a potential witness? No, Brigham was followed."
"Well, it should be easy to find the guy. We'll put out an APB: 'Homicide suspect, tall, thin, armed and dangerous with glow-in-the-dark eyes'. We'll have him in no time." D'Agosta shot him a dirty look.
"Stow that shit. The last thing we need is something like that to leak to the press. God knows what kind of crap they'd broadcast."
"So what do you think he saw?"
"Nothing. Just his mind playing tricks on him."
"You're probably right. Guy was wound up already. His imagination was probably working over time."
"Yeah. Imagination," said D'Agosta with conviction he did not feel. In his mind, he feared it was something much, much worse.
D'Agosta double checked the address Pendergast had given him before gazing up at the hulking granite edifice. The Dakota, one of the more famous (and infamous) residences in the Upper West Side. D'Agosta shrugged and made his way to the entrance where he handed the card to the guard at the sentry box. The guard directed him to the southwest lobby, where he stepped into the waiting elevator and pressed a button. As the elevator ascended, D'Agosta went over the strange conversation in his mind. Pendergast believed the murders were connected to the events of the past spring. D'Agosta shook his head while trying to dispel the creeping fear that things were decidedly worse than Pendergast had let on.
The elevator doors opened to reveal a small dark-paneled entrance hallway with a door at the far end. D'Agosta stepped into the hall just as the door opened to reveal Pendergast, dressed in his inveterate black suit.
"Vincent. Do come in." He followed Pendergast into a dimly lit living room furnished with several small black leather sofas and lacquer tables. D'Agosta noted the framed prints and paintings adorning three of the walls and the flat bowls, containing groups of miniature trees sitting on the tables. He turned to the fourth wall, which appeared to be covered in black granite, and upon closer inspection he saw the sheet of water cascading down the wall to a receiving pool.
"Please have a seat," said Pendergast as he lowered himself onto one of the sofas. D'Agosta followed suit, choosing the sofa opposite Pendergast.
"Nice place."
Pendergast inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement.
"So…what have you found out?"
"During the events of this past spring we were working on the belief that Dr. Kawakita had only contacted Dr. Frock in his desperate attempts to correct the problems inherent in the Mbwun virus drug. We now know this was not the case. When Frock began his quest toward deification and was no longer interested in reversing the effects, Kawakita knew he had to get help. He shared his research with another trusted colleague, a rather brilliant molecular biologist he had met in graduate school."
"Who?"
"I'm afraid I can't share that information with you, Vincent. I am already breaking several edicts by meeting with you this evening."
"Great. So what can you tell me?"
"His colleague was able to isolate the genes which caused the gross physical changes and deactivate them, as well as those which produced the behavior-altering compounds. Her new version of the virus was fairly innocuous, and she then began working on reversing the effects through a type of gene therapy, using the virus as a vector. Unfortunately, Kawakita was killed before she finished."
"Did she succeed?"
"In finding a 'cure'? Yes, but by that time it was too late. The Wrinklers had been eliminated."
"So what does this have to do with the new murders?"
"I am afraid, Vincent, that the good doctor did not cease her experiments with the virus after she found a cure for the Wrinklers' affliction. She began testing its' ability to insert new genes into a host, genes which were specifically selected in order to bring about certain…improvements."
"What sort of improvements?"
"Increased strength and density of skeletal muscles, and an increase in the permittivity of light to the retina."
"What the Hell for? She wanted to make the Wrinklers stronger and see better? That's crazy! Why would she do that?"
"Her new itineration of the virus was not meant for the Wrinklers, nor for the, ah, common citizen. And, as I understand, increased strength was not exactly the characteristic she was hoping to achieve."
"So what was she hoping for?" sputtered D'Agosta as he tried to calm the twisting fear in his gut. Pendergast was silent for several minutes, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. Finally, he spoke, his voice so low D'Agosta had to strain to hear.
"Grief, Vincent, drives human beings to measures that the rational mind would eschew. A few months before Kawakita sought out her help, the woman's younger brother was murdered. He was a NYPD officer, off duty, who got caught in the middle of a robbery. He tried to stop them and received a bullet for his troubles. The perpetrators were never identified. The doctor was devastated. He was her only remaining blood relative."
D'Agosta sat in silence. The woman's pain and loss was something he, as an officer, could understand.
"I'm sorry. Truly, I am, but what does this--?"
"She wanted to help, Vincent. She wanted to make sure no other sister, or wife, or son or daughter experienced that kind of loss. She wanted to give those who uphold the law an edge. She wanted to help them survive."
"You mean…?"
"The new genes that the virus introduced increase the density and strength of the muscle fibers, particularly surrounding the chest and abdomen, without increasing bulk. This change gives the relatively fragile human body greater resistance towards sharp force and ballistic trauma."
"Wait a minute. Are you telling me she was trying to make people bullet-proof?"
"In essence, yes. The skin does still sustain damage, but the force of the bullet is dispersed through the muscle tissue and thus the vital organs are protected."
" 'Are protected'? She succeeded? You mean there are actually genetically engineered…Kevlar people wandering around New York?!"
Pendergast's lips curved into a thin smile. "I believe they would prefer the term 'genetically enhanced'."
"Jesus. How…how many? And where are they? Who are they?"
"That is the question that the officials in the police department and the Field Office are currently trying to answer. It seems that the good doctor was able to introduce her 'enhancement' to members of several branches of law enforcement. In fact, we do not yet know the depth of this, ah, problem."
"But…what are they going to do to those who were infected?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Yes. Officials are working to identify those who have been infected, and to monitor them closely for adverse side affects. Those officers and agents will not be sanctioned. They are working on a way to reverse the effects, but until a 'cure' is produced, nothing is to be done. They are trying to keep the matter under wraps and not attract the attention of the press. Imagine, Vincent, what would happen if the public were to discover the truth? The repercussions would be devastating to the City. Panic, distrust, and hysteria over the 'genetic engineering' of law enforcement officers would seriously undermine the ability of the department to conduct business and maintain any sense of order. Any hint that something is amiss could jeopardize the agencies in question, as well as the lives of all officers and agents. This brings us back to the reason for your visit."
"The vigilante. You think he's one of the infected cops, gone rogue and targeting cop killers?"
"Yes. I spoke with the witness to the last murder. He provided me with a piece of information that supports this theory."
"Tropchek? What did he tell you?"
"According to Mr. Tropchek, the killer's eyes appeared to 'glow'. One of the other attributes of the infection is significantly increased light permittivity to the retina, larger concentrations of rhodopsin, and development of a tapetum lucidum. This would give the eyes the 'glow' that Mr. Tropchek observed, similar to what is seen in nocturnal animals."
"Wouldn't that be noticeable? I mean, couldn't we use that to find the guy?"
"It is disguised without much difficulty. We do know this killer would take whatever steps are necessary to protect himself from detection. He has a goal, and he won't stop until he has eliminated his targets, or until he is caught. It is imperative that he is found, Vincent, for all our sakes."
"What about the people who were infected? Maybe they would have some idea as to where to start?"
Pendergast leaned back in his chair and sighed.
"I'm afraid, Vincent, that it will not be so simple. Many of those who were 'infected' do not know that we are aware of their condition. Of those who do know, their silence and cooperation with the investigation is tenuous, at best. They are steadfast in their assertions that they do not know who, or how many, have been infected. The possibility of a cure and the promise of legal immunity are the only things that are keeping them 'in line'."
D'Agosta stared at Pendergast in silence for several minutes, running through the information in his mind. Finally, he rose from his seat.
"I think I have a pretty good idea where to start. What exactly do you need me to do if I find this guy?"
"When he is apprehended, the Field Office will handle the paperwork, but, as I'm sure you can understand, the need for discretion is paramount. The public must not know of this case."
"I understand. You can count on me." Pendergast rose from his seat.
"Thank you, Vincent." D'Agosta shook his hand, turned, and walked out the door. Pendergast stood in silence for a moment, going over the conversation in his mind, extracting every detail. Finally, he lowered himself back into his chair, reached across the small side table and switched on the lamp. The light caused him to squint briefly as his eyes adjusted, but he barely noticed. His mind was on the problem at hand and what the darkness had shown him.
D'Agosta flipped up his coat collar and began his walk back to the subway, trying to deal with the conflicting emotions he felt. First, a feeling of intense relief: the Wrinklers were truly dead. The fear the he had felt since viewing the first headless corpse had finally dissipated . The new situation, however, wasn't much better. D'Agosta paused to look around, and shook his head. It was incredible: the widespread phenomenon affecting the law enforcement agencies, the top brass scrambling to cover it up, unknown numbers of officers infected… D'Agosta could scarcely believe the extent of the situation. He was not really surprised, however, that outside officials were having difficulty convincing the infected officers to "break ranks". The sense of loyalty and brotherhood among New York's finest was strong: they protected their own. But now, D'Agosta knew, there was a break in the line. One officer was placing the force in jeopardy, and they, the force, would take care of it. D'Agosta was ready and willing to do his part. There were a couple of leads to follow, backgrounds to check, but he would find this guy. He had to. As Pendergast had said, it needed to be done, for all of their sakes.
D'Agosta stopped for a minute as his eyes started to burn. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small plastic case. He flipped open the lid and with a series of well-practiced movements, he propped open each eye, plucked out the thin dark brown lenses covering each iris, and placed the lenses in the case. He looked up to catch his reflection in a nearby window and smiled.
This guy may be hard to find, but I know what to look for. As for the Feds, they'll never know who he was. It's our problem, and we'll make it disappear.
D'Agosta took one last look at his reflection: a normal looking Italian American cop…with amber, glowing eyes.