Chapter 4: Let the Games Begin
Wednesday Morning
Jarod looked across the street at the front entrance of the Dignity Shelter, where Hank Kellogg was supposed to be collecting information for his research paper on the psychology of homelessness. It was a plain, red-brick building with very little to distinguish it from its surroundings; even the small sign affixed above the doorway didn't call attention very loudly. The street in front of the shelter was a typical inner-city mess, with a car up on blocks and missing its wheels and doors, the usual mix of homeless and poor milling about aimlessly, and litter strewn everywhere.
He'd been in such places before – and he didn't like it now anymore than he had when he'd been forced by his fugitive status to seek refuge in such an environment. At those low points in his life, even having his freedom didn't mitigate against the depression that inevitably would set in living in what was, truly, a part of the 'cement jungle' of the inner city. Not a tree or green growing thing could be seen. Looking up, one could glimpse blue sky on a clear day – and that was about as close as one could get to Nature.
Taking a deep breath, Jarod thrust his hands into the pockets of his old leather jacket, pulled from the back of his closet for old-time's sake, and sauntered across the street toward the front door of the shelter. It was mid-morning already – the residents had already taken their obligatory leave of the premises. This would be as good a time as any to ask the head of the shelter a few questions.
"No residents in the building until after four-thirty…" came a bored and nasal voice, followed by the sallow face of a man peeking around the corner of a doorjamb. "Oh!" he exclaimed when he saw Jarod. "I thought you were…"
"No, I'm not," Jarod agreed evenly. "But I AM here about one of your residents – a Hank Kellogg?"
"Hank Kellogg?" The man beckoned, and Jarod followed him into a moderately disheveled looking apartment. "Have a seat," he directed Jarod to a shoddily draped and dilapidated couch while he went to a cluttered table for a heavy-looking book. "Hank Kellogg…" He brought the book back with him to sit down on the other end of the couch – and then looked up sharply. "There was some other fellow called and asked about him last night…"
"That was me," Jarod admitted. He pointed to the heavy book. "I know that he hasn't been in residence for the past three nights – but I was hoping maybe you'd have some information about where he might have gone…"
The man made a face and shook his head. "These guys don't tell me squat – and I'm just as glad of it," he spoke in disgust. "I just keep the registration books straight and change the sheets on the cots when a new client comes in where an old one used to be."
"Do your residents leave any of their belongings here during the day?"
"Nope," the man shook his head again. "Anything found on the premises during the day is considered abandoned." He patted the closed book on his lap. "I'm sorry, but the only thing I can tell you is whether or not he was bunking with us on any particular day."
"What about friends?" Jarod persisted, hoping that Hank hadn't truly just vanished into the incredibly cruel and harsh inner city. "Who could I talk to that knew him?"
"Hank was hanging around a fellow by the name of Booger – always seemed to be asking him questions and such." The manager shook his head yet again. "Sometimes that ain't a very healthy thing to do…"
Jarod perked up slightly. "Where can I find this… Booger?"
The slightly greasy and lanky head of hair made a twitch toward the front of the building. "On the corner, there, there's a park bench. If there's a fellow in an old, red flannel jacket and one of them Russian looking hats, that's Booger. Mind you, though – Booger doesn't exactly have all his marbles, if you get my drift…" The washed-out blue eyes peered at Jarod to make sure his meaning was understood. "On a good day, you can believe maybe half of what that loon says."
"Well, thank you for your time." Jarod was on his feet and moving toward the apartment door.
"Good luck finding your friend," the manager called back, not even bothering to rise.
Jarod sighed as the door closed behind him and then walked down the first steps of the building slowly, his eyes studying the shapeless lumps that deposited themselves on the park benches of the area. Not a one of them sported a red flannel jacket.
Damn!
He made a bee-line for the park bench that the manager indicated was Booger's normal daytime roost. "Hey," he called to get the attention of the dirty and ragged soul sitting there. "Anybody know of a guy named Booger?"
"Booger's gone," the lump of dingy clothing moved to reveal itself as a man with at very long and ragged beard and slightly wild looking dark eyes. "They took him – and the noob that was hangin' with him lately."
Jarod felt the beginnings of a knot in his stomach. "They took him, you say… Who's this 'they'?"
"Folks what don't belong here," was the grunted answer. "Dark suits. They was talking to a bunch of us for a while. Then I seen em followin' Booger back over here – and then the big guy in the suit grabs 'im. Booger's new pal started to complain, and the other guy grabbed 'is arm. B'fore I knowed it, they had both of 'em hauled up into the back of this black van – and they was tearin' down the road…"
"Booger was snatched – and his friend too?" Jarod repeated incredulously.
"Right here in broad daylight – bold as you please." The man looked back down at the plain brown paper bag in his hand. "And I heared tell same thing happened in front of the Little Sisters of Mercy not an hour later." The lump shrugged itself back into shapelessness. "Dangerous place out here, the streets are these days…
Jarod turned away in the direction of the nearest bus stop, his right hand rubbing his mouth. Hank was in trouble. Something was VERY wrong.
It was time to bring in the police.
oOoOo
"What do you mean, you can't do anything about it?" Lyle's morning had NOT been going well – and to hear that the Triumvirate was in no position to assist him was to rub salt in the wound.
"It's very simple, Mr. Lyle," the accented voice responded with exaggerated patience. "It is a question of numbers – and policy. Policy dictates that the Chairman leave written instructions regarding his successor – and that such a document will be read at the first stockholder's meeting after the Chairman's death or… in this case… incapacitation."
"But you're the Triumvirate…" Lyle hissed. "You dictate to the Chairman…"
"We hold the purse strings for several very important projects for the Centre, this is true," the accented voice continued, "but at times like these, the wishes of the stockholders must be adhered to. They have declared that there will be a full meeting of all investors, and that the selection of the next Chairman will come after Mr. Raines' intentions are read. Until then, you and Miss Parker will have joint responsibility for the smooth operation of the Centre."
"But I'm sure Mr. Raines wanted me to take his place – he told me…" Lyle sputtered.
The voice on the other end of the line sounded unamused. "While Miss Parker assures me that she heard very clearly that he wanted HER to take his place."
"That's preposterous!"
"Frankly, the only thing that matters is the document making his wishes clear – and the subsequent stockholder vote."
Lyle's face was flushed with anger. Willy had brazenly informed him that for as long as Mr. Raines was in the Renewal Wing, his place was THERE – and not doing odd jobs for one of two contenders for the Chairman's position. It had always stuck in Lyle's craw that he was the only one of the top echelon of Centre officials who did NOT have a personal sweeper – and with Raines out of the way, there should have been no problem moving Willy to his side of the field. But no…
"The Triumvirate share of stock is more than that of the publicly held…"
"Actually," the voice corrected sharply, "that imbalance was reversed after Mr. Raines took control."
"Still…"
"Mr. Lyle." The accented voice was calm and unmoving – and held a note that told the Parker sibling to sit up and take notice. "The meeting is set for a week from today. A representative of the Triumvirate will be on site there in Delaware by the end of today. You are advised to be patient."
Lyle crashed the receiver into its cradle. "Patience my ass," he growled. He rose from his comfortable chair behind his desk and walked to the window overlooking the huge manicured lawn that stretched nearly the entire distance between the Tower and the white sand beach of the Atlantic. "I can't just sit around…"
And suddenly he began to smile.
oOoOo
"Here." Miss Parker put a folded slip of paper on Broots' keyboard.
"What's this?" He reached out for it and would have opened it but for the hard grip on his shoulder from behind.
Miss Parker bent so that her lips weren't very far from her computer tech's ear. "Passwords I happened to glean while browsing through the documents from Raines' office yesterday." She backed off just a bit and nodded when he turned to face her with a look of pure surprise on his face. "Dollars to donuts that those are the passwords to the top clearance levels in the mainframe."
Broots' eyebrows were climbing his forehead quickly. "Do you know what that means?" he asked in a rough whisper, meanly squashing the temptation to look around and see if anybody was trying to listen in on their conversation.
The hand tightened on his shoulder. "Of course I know what that means, Shaggy. It means that you're going to unlock all the Centre's secrets for me over the next few days, right?"
Broots nodded slowly. "All that work creating a back door that bypassed security…"
"I'm sure it won't all be wasted time." The claw dug into his shoulder became a companionable pat. "You can use the passwords to get me project names and so on – and teach me how to use the back door for when I go home at night."
There was a slow smile beginning to dawn on Broots' face. "I know what you're doing – you're getting a step ahead of Lyle," he announced appreciatively.
"You noticed," Miss Parker replied, patted his shoulder a couple more times and then moved away. "And we're going to start with Hydra's Teeth – I want all the particulars on that particular project that exist in the computer on my desk as soon as possible. For some reason, that one has me concerned."
"What about Raines' hard drive?"
She shook her head. "Not yet. Let's dissect what is at hand first, before we go trying to dig into stuff that's supposed to be held under lock and key." She moved toward the opening to his cubbyhole. "I'm heading down to the Sim Lab – page me there if you find anything interesting.
"Yes, ma'am!"
One down, Miss Parker told herself silently as she walked confidently down the corridor toward the elevator. The next part of her plan, however, would take finesse and skill.
"Miss Parker!" Sam trotted up to her from the opposite end of the corridor. "Mr. Lyle is looking for you."
"Do tell." Her voice was a study in sarcasm. "One of these days, he'll actually find me. In the meanwhile…" She pointed. "I want you to keep an eye on Broots – let me know if anybody starts hanging around his work space and just watching him. He's doing high security work for me that I don't want shared with the rest of the world – especially now." Her storm-grey eyes bore holes through Sam's blue gaze. "Capisce?"
"Got it, Miss Parker," Sam responded immediately. For the first time in a very long time, she'd handed him an interesting task. He'd set himself up someplace innocuous, where he could keep track of the comings and goings of people up and down the corridor and especially into the computer lab. The sweeper grapevine was already humming with rumor and speculation as to what to expect from the Parker twins as they vied for the Centre crown – it would be fun to be a little on the inside and know what was happening, at least from one side of the fence.
The only fence he wanted standing, he decided. The mere thought of a Centre with Mr. Lyle at the helm was enough to give him gooseflesh.
oOoOo
The prick of a needle entering his arm roused Hank Kellogg, and he blinked repeatedly to clear his vision. The man in the white coat was unfastening the straps that had been holding him to the table – and then gave him a hand in sitting up.
"How do you feel?" Mr. Cox asked his test subject with bright-eyed eagerness.
"Just fine, sir," Hank responded immediately. "A little hungry…"
"We'll take care of that in just a moment. We have just one small test that needs to happen before we can send you back to your room to eat and rest."
Hank accepted the thin bathrobe that addressed the modesty issue of wearing a hospital gown and gazed expectantly into the white-garbed researcher. "What test is that, sir?"
"Come with me." Mr. Cox's hand was at Hank's elbow as the thin man slid carefully from the gurney and onto unsteady feet. "It's just a little ways up ahead."
Hank plodded complacently at the man's side. He didn't know the man's name, but he just KNEW that he was supposed to do exactly what this man asked of him – without question.
Mr. Cox was hard-pressed to hold in his delight. This subject had sped through the complicated process of drug therapy and standard brainwashing techniques – and now was as docile as a lamb being led to the slaughter. If the ease with which this subject's mind had been reshaped and molded was any indication, there were going to be very pleased clients in Africa for the Centre – maybe even an above-ground office space for him in the offing.
The door to the laboratory opened, and Mr. Cox escorted Hank through and into a darkened room. "Sit here," the researcher ordered, pushing Hank into a metal folding chair situated in the middle of the room. "Wait – and do not move." From beneath his white lab coat, Mr. Cox pulled out a revolver and placed it in his subject's lap. "If anybody tries to make you move, I want you to kill them. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir." Hank nodded calmly. He was to sit, and if anybody tried to force him to move, he was to use the gun. It was a very easy order.
"Remember. Do NOT move." When the man in hospital clothing seemed to turn into a statue, Mr. Cox cautiously made his way back out again.
"Make it convincing," he directed the three sweepers who had emerged from another room and who now stood with guns at the ready. "He has to think that you mean business – and will kill him."
The lead sweeper nodded perfunctorily and then moved to the door. "Ready?" he asked his two assistants and then, when they nodded, pushed open the door harshly so that it banged against the wall noisily.
"Stand up!" he barked in a sharp voice as the light in the room flared suddenly to illumine everything. "Turn around slowly and put your hands up!"
Hank simply sat there. He was under orders to sit – and sit was what he was going to do.
"Damn it!" The second sweeper moved to Hank's side and gave his shoulder a vicious shove. "Listen, you idiot. If you don't stand up and do as you're told, he's going to kill you. He's been itching to do someone a mischief all day…"
"Shut up, asshole!" the lead sweeper hissed and moved to his assistant's side and shoved him out of the way. "I told you to stand up," he said in a soft and lethal tone to the man in the chair.
Hank simply sat there. All he could think of was that he was told not to move – so that was what he was going to do.
The head sweeper stuck his gun in Hank's ear and chambered a round – and the man in the chair didn't even flinch. "If you don't get to your feet, I'm going to paint that wall over there all pink and white." Still the man in the chair sat absolutely motionless and virtually without paying the least attention.
A quick jerk of the head had the second and third sweepers hauling Hank up out of the chair by his arms – and suddenly Hank exploded into action. He had the gun in his hand almost before any of them could anticipate it and held it to the second sweeper's head steadily and squeezed the trigger. A light puff of paint issued from the barrel, but the sweeper dropped the arm and fell to the floor as if dead. The third sweeper struggled with the arm as it came quickly around to take aim at him, and finally wrested the gun away.
"You do know what I'm going to have to do," the head sweeper said, moving directly in front of the test subject and putting the barrel of his gun to the man's forehead. "You're a dead man."
The expression in the man's eyes was eerily calm as the sweeper pulled the trigger – bringing a puff of paint and chemical that atomized immediately and was breathed in as well as absorbed through the skin. The chemical was a quick-acting sedative, and the bathrobed man sagged and would have fallen to the floor had it not been for the third sweeper's hold on him.
Mr. Cox came in just as the second sweeper was picking himself up off the floor and dusting himself off. "Take him back to his space," he ordered, smiling with glee and satisfaction. "See to it food is available for him when he wakes up."
The sweepers nodded obedience and half dragged, half carried the unconscious man back through the laboratory door. Mr. Cox made some quick notations in the man's file folder and then tucked his pen away with a smile of satisfaction. Now all he'd need would be another of the subjects to respond as quickly and favorably as the first, and his position within the Centre/Triumvirate would be assured.
"Bring me the next subject!" he called out to one of the sweepers who lurked near the lab doorway to provide security for the project. There was no time to waste.
oOoOo
Miss Parker looked up as a small noise from the air conditioning grate caught at her attention. As she watched, the grate swung open on virtually silent hinges and Angelo slipped out – his brilliant blue eyes never leaving her face as he shut the grate and turned to face her. "Sydney say Daughter need Angelo?" he managed in a somewhat halting voice that gave vivid indication of how hard it was for him to put together an easily coherent sentence sometimes.
"Yes, Angelo, I do need you," she replied quietly and pointed to a chair in front of her desk. "Sit down," she invited and opened the lower drawer of her desk. In there was the box of Cracker Jacks that she had brought that morning just for this occasion. "I need you to do a favor for me."
"Tasty treat," Angelo smiled at her suddenly, nodding.
"That's right," she nodded and put the box on the desk just a little ways out of the small man's reach. "I need you to put something into Mr. Raines' old office for me – and I need you to do it without anybody knowing what you're doing."
Angelo's blue eyes gazed up at her brightly and then focused once more on the colorful cardboard box. "Red folder into the floor…" he stated with certainty.
How he could guess what she wanted was a subject that Miss Parker didn't really want to understand. That he knew – and that he agree to do the job – was all she wanted to know. "Can you do it?" she asked sharply, still holding the box out of reach.
"Thirty-five left, twelve right, sixteen left, twenty-two right," he recited, his eyes closing as if listening to an inner voice. "Then turn handle."
The accuracy of Angelo's recitation was almost enough to take her breath away. How many secrets might this man have seen in his many years wandering the hallways and hidden vents of the Centre? "That's right, Angelo. Put this…" she handed him the red document case, "in the safe, close it up, and then leave without touching anything else."
The bright blue eyes were on her face again. "Daughter want Daddy's chair," he said, his face blooming with a bright smile.
"Can you do it?" As always, time spent with the empathic little man was frustrating as well as enlightening.
"Angelo do," he replied finally. "Angelo do today. For Daughter."
"Very good, Angelo," she responded and pushed the box of carmel corn and peanut mixture into his reach. "I'm counting on you."
Angelo pulled up his pull-over tee shirt and stuffed the red document case under his shirt, then tucked the box of Cracker Jacks into his mouth. Without another word, he reached up for the ventilation grate and opened it – and then seemed to just be swallowed by the small hole in her wall. The grate swung closed once more on silent hinges – and Miss Parker was once more alone in her office.
She slowly let out a long-held breath and ran her fingers through her hair. That, if nothing else, would serve to put a kink in Lyle's tail. Now to make sure that she ended up with at least as much if not more information about what the Centre had been up to for the last few years than Lyle was. She glanced down at the contract she was supposed to be blue-pencilling for the legal department – and impatiently pushed the papers back into the folder from which she'd taken them.
She had every last resource at her disposal working on her dilemma – getting a step ahead of Lyle now, at this late date, wasn't going to be easy.
She hurried from her office, once more concerned and curious about what Broots might have uncovered in her absence.
oOoOo
Captain Frank DiAngelo studied the paperwork in front of him and then gazed up into the face of the new detective. "Jarod… Holmes?"
"Yes, sir." Jarod didn't flinch under the police captain's scrutinizing gaze. "Is there a problem, sir?"
"No," the greying head shook slowly. "I'm just at a loss as to why Central felt you needed to be assigned here. I see your specialty is undercover work – specifically in the inner city. We've got plenty…"
"Cap, I was sent here to check out a disturbing story that was starting to circulate around the places I've been frequenting while in the field," Jarod hastened to explain. The less time one of these supervisors had to either examine his credentials or think about calling to question the higher-ups, the more likely a Pretend was to succeed. "Some of the guys I get my information from were talking about a black van going from one shelter neighborhood to another, snatching shelter residents."
"Say what?" The captain was astounded.
"We have an eye witness from the vicinity of the Dignity Shelter that turned up over at the Little Sisters of Mercy talking about two of his buddies getting hauled into a van three days ago – and then another witness talked about one of his buddies getting hassled by some 'suits' and then disappearing over at the uptown Salvation Army…"
"Three homeless guys…" The captain sounded skeptical.
Jarod shook his head. "Seems that one of them wasn't your regular homeless shelter resident. He was a psychiatric resident doing research for his dissertation – and he has a mother who is VERY worried. And the more we followed this at my old precinct, the more convoluted the trail became."
"That's fine," the captain let the file drop onto his somewhat messy desk. "That doesn't tell me what you're doing in my precinct, though, or what you want to prove here…"
"Whoever these guys were in this van, they seemed to be moving in this direction. My job is to see if the trend that started in the '47' continued over here – and if it kept on going. If we have a serial kidnapper at work here…"
The captain had blanched. "Has the media gotten wind of this yet?"
"No," Jarod soothed, "but there's no promise that the psych student's parents won't eventually spill the beans if they feel that police aren't taking the case seriously."
"Fine." The captain seemed to come to a decision. "There's an empty desk over there by Wang – it's yours. Keep me up to date on your investigation – and do your best to keep the news media from catching the slightest whiff of this. Last thing this department needs…"
Jarod followed the pointing finger with his eye to where there was a relatively abandoned-looking desk in the back of the precinct bull pen. "You don't have to worry, captain – since I'm the only man the department wants on this case for now, there's very little chance of a leak."
"See to it that it stays that way!" DiAngelo picked up Detective Holmes folder and tossed it into his Out box. "If you need resources, ask."
"Yes, sir." Jarod pushed through the glass door and headed toward his desk. With any luck, Captain DiAngelo wouldn't feel a pressing need to call Captain Fischer over at the '47' to confirm his story – and with just a touch more luck, he would figure out what was going on and be out of this Pretend before anybody could begin to ask questions.
Pretending wasn't a part of his life anymore – and the sooner he could go back to being just plain Jarod Russell, psychiatric resident, the better he'd like it.
oOoOo
"OK, let me get this straight," Lyle sighed in frustration and leaned forward toward the accountant. "You're saying that nobody with a Centre job has a majority vote here?"
"With the Chairman's shares standing as an 'abstain' vote, only the stockholders themselves hold a majority," mousy little Cindy Stewart, with thick glasses and slightly stringy hair that hung limply over her shoulders, answered with no hesitation. "The Triumvirate, as an organization, holds a fifteen percent share of the total public offering. You and your sister have nineteen percent each, and the Chairman's share stands at twenty-five percent. The remaining twenty-two percent is held by the stockholder's association."
Lyle gritted his teeth. That nineteen percent investiture was enough to ensure that both he and his sister were independently wealthy individuals – but the continued control of that block of stock and the fat dividend check it deposited into their bank accounts on a regular basis was contingent upon compliance with the wishes of the Chairman. Open rebellion in regards to policy decisions or project selection was cause for the financial rug to be jerked – and the authority and force of the Centre security department to be wielded in swift and decisive retribution.
That threat had kept them both in reluctant thrall to the Centre – first under the administration of Charles Parker and then most lately the administration of William Raines – for a very long time. And now that the opportunity to slither out from under that despotic thumb had come along, both he and his sister were going to have to be patient until the stockholder's meeting.
"So, say if I talk to the Triumvirate and get them to throw their fifteen percent in with my nineteen percent. That would be thirty-four percent…"
"Yes," Cindy explained patiently, wishing herself anywhere but under the scrutiny of one of the volatile Parker twins, "but all Miss Parker has to do is keep the majority of the independent stockholder vote with her, and you'll be outvoted thirty-four to forty-one percent."
"I could meet with the independent stockholders…"
The accountant shook her head. "To be honest, Mr. Lyle, the stockholders of this corporation have consistently voted with the recommendation of the out-going Chairman as to the appointment of the new Chairman – as has the Triumvirate. If Mr. Raines' letter of recommendation names you, then your appointment is virtually assured. If, however…"
"Damn!" Lyle's open palm struck the desk a sharp and resounding blow that made the little woman jump. "There HAS to be a way…"
"I'm sorry," Cindy scooted her chair ever so slightly back and away from the desk – back and away from the simmering violence that was Mr. Lyle. "All I can tell you…"
Lyle got to his feet and simply stormed off, leaving the accountant breathless and thoroughly relieved that she'd managed to survive the encounter. Through the opening to her cubby, Cindy could see the sympathetic glances of her coworkers, people grateful that the cubby the Parker twin had barged into was hers rather than theirs.
Just because she was the stockholder liaison…
oOoOo
"Forehead was higher," Gimpy pointed out, stabbing a dirty finger at the computer screen. "No wrinkles either."
"What color were the eyes?" Ben Granville asked, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the odd smells wafting from the wretched-looking man sitting next to him.
"How the hell should I know?" the homeless man screeched and then looked up into the face of the Detective who had already given him a hot meal and a twenty dollar bill. "Tell him I wasn't trying to take in details…"
"Just do what you can to remember," Jarod patted Gimpy's shoulder and glanced in sympathy at Granville. "Anything else you can remember about this guy?"
"Yeah…" Gimpy said with a voice that told the police officers in the room that he was remembering the best he could. "Come to think of it… This guy had no thumb on his left hand."
"Oh?" Granville noted down the detail on the miscellaneous description area.
Jarod started and then stared a little harder at the composite that was staring out from the computer screen. If he didn't know better, adding the missing thumb to the face reminded him an awful lot of… Jarod blinked. It couldn't be! Lyle??
"What about the other guy?" Granville moved smoothly to print out copies of the first composite and get the unsavory witness thinking about the second man he'd seen.
If Jarod had had any doubts with the first composite, they vanished as the second face slowly emerged from the hesitant words and description. Within another half hour, he was staring at the face of Willy – Raines' personal sweeper.
"You're sure about this?" he demanded without shifting his gaze from the computer screen.
"Yup," Gimpy nodded and then pointed again. "That's the fella who come along and grabbed Booger from behind."
Jarod could feel the hackles rising on the back of his neck. The Centre was involved in this! Why?? What in God's name did they want in picking up homeless men – and did they realize they'd picked up someone NOT homeless or drunk?
oOoOo
Wednesday Evening
Angelo sat at the very end of a long ventilation duct, staring down into the silent and dimly lit office that had once been the personal domain of the Wheezing Man. Now the mind that had spat vile plots and even more vile memories into his head whenever Angelo came close was silent – although the frail and failing body itself continued to be kept alive by the machines.
He didn't need to wonder what was in the package he'd carried through the ducts. It was Daughter's crowning effort to wrench control of the Centre away from the No-Thumb man. Sydney hadn't had to do much talking before Angelo had been eager to climb back into the small metal tunnel and find Daughter and accept her task – Daughter BELONGED in Daddy's chair, not No-Thumb.
Angelo hated No-Thumb almost as much as he hated Wheezing Man – and feared him even more.
The grate on the air conditioning once more swung open on silent hinges, and Angelo carefully lowered himself to the floor. Angelo froze as the memories of this room bombarded him relentlessly – some long-silent voices raised in complaint or pleading, others cackling with perverse satisfaction or muttering with malevolent intent. He didn't like this room – and Daughter would discover that her voices didn't like it either, he was sure. Her voices were his own, after all…
It took effort to turn his mental ear from the screaming in his mind and move to behind the desk and then pull the huge leather chair from its customary spot so that he could get at the hinged carpeting. He sank to his knees and put the red document case on the floor and silently repeated the combination to himself as he spun the knob without needing to watch what he was doing. He KNEW when he'd gone far enough – and when the time came to twist the handle, the metal safe door easily lifted up, revealing the hole that was its interior.
Angelo didn't waste any time, but slipped the red document case back into the safe – putting it several layers deep beneath other papers whose purpose Angelo didn't want to know and so touched only briefly. He folded the safe door back down into the floor, spun the knob locking the safe once more, and then let the carpet segment fall back into its customary place. Angelo stood, toed the little silver metal ring back into its holder, and then moved the huge chair back into its place.
The little empath was half-way across the office floor toward the open vent grate when he turned and stared. On the desk, in full view, was a small, stonework paperweight in the shape of a hunched rabbit. Fascinated as if never having seen the object before, Angelo walked slowly back to the desk and picked it up – holding it to his chest. Daughter would want, he knew instinctively – hearing Wheezing Man's voice insisting that it remain on HIS desk since HE was Daughter's true father.
Angelo knew differently. But he also could feel the love with which Daughter had presented this little trifle to the man she'd long believed her father. There was no reason for it to remain here any longer – Daughter would want it for her home.
He slipped the little bit of stoneware into his pants pocket and scurried over to the open grate. Practice gave him the agility to pull himself back up into the grate without leaving a single mark on the wall, and a contortionist's flexibility allowed him to turn in the small and confined space so he could pull the grate closed once more. His task was done – and Daughter would understand that the rabbit on her desk was proof the task was done.
He smiled widely and began to move silently and quickly down the long, dark metal tunnel that was the warren he called home.
oOoOo
Jarod stared down at the cell phone in his hand, knowing the telephone number programmed into the number two spot on his speed dial was one he hadn't used for over five years. In all that time, he'd promised himself that there would never be a reason that he'd have to call that number again – he'd found his parents, spent a year and a half living with them and carefully reconstructing a family bond with them, then left live in the dorms and to go to med school, and finally launch out on his own into his own apartment. He'd put the Centre, Sydney and all of the nightmares behind him. He was happy, his own man, self-sufficient.
Until now.
Of course he had run up against mention of his old prison and the man who had been the closest thing to family during his years of complete freedom – the Centre somehow tried to maintain an aura of legitimacy and occasionally found itself and its cutting-edge research the topic of a news story or magazine article. Sydney himself was published – although not prolifically so – and Jarod had tripped often enough over a paper submitted to mainstream journals such as Psychology Today written in his old mentor's inimical style. Sydney's article had even proven the jumping-off point for the research paper that had been the crowning achievement of his med school career – and had been the reason he'd been hired by such a reputable teaching hospital as a psychiatric resident.
But now, Jarod was in the strange and very uncomfortable position of needing Sydney's advice and help – if such was even possible. Where Hank had been taken within the Centre complex of satellite facilities and dummy front firms was anybody's guess. The security protocols on the Centre mainframe had changed dramatically too – Broots was getting cagier and more adept at planting alarm flags at unexpected places within the routines. Jarod had backed out of the mainframe before he'd tripped one of those alarms and logged off, impressed and disquieted.
Jarod sighed deeply. Hank was a friend – a dear friend – almost a brother. And he was lost in the clutches of the Centre. There was no other option open to him at the moment. He pressed the number two button down until the familiar name appeared and then put the phone to his ear.
"This is Sydney," came a well-remembered and gently curious tone.
It was hard to speak for a moment. This was setting aside five years of anonymity. "Sydney?"
He heard a gasp and the sound of a chair scraping across linoleum – he must have caught Sydney at home, in his kitchen. "Jarod?"
"I need your help."
The long pause on the other end of the line was eloquent – unspoken "how are you's" and "I'm sorry's" echoed between the two men like bullets ricocheting in a metal box. Finally: "What do you want of me?"
Jarod closed his eyes and sent a sharp thought of gratitude to his mentor for knowing when to simply deal with the situation at hand. He'd have to make up for this abrupt disruption later on, when things weren't so desperate. "One of my friends has been kidnapped by the Centre."
"A friend?" Sydney's voice was mildly curious.
Jarod sighed. "He was doing research among the homeless…"
"Oh. That." Sydney's voice grew disgusted. "Parker and Broots have been looking into something that Mr. Cox and Lyle have been brewing – and we had considered that, with the name given the project, it might involve the homeless…"
"What project? What's it about?" Jarod demanded.
"Parker only had a project name – Hydra's Teeth – and memos back and forth among Raines, Cox and Lyle regarding a trip to New York a few days ago…"
"That's when Hank disappeared!" Jarod breathed. "What else do you know? Since when is Cox back in the Centre?"
Sydney's voice was gently chiding. "Operatives rarely ever truly leave the Centre, Jarod – you know that. Evidently Raines kept Cox on the payroll because this project promised to be a very lucrative affair."
"Raines…" Jarod's voice dripped with hatred, loathing, fear and repugnance. "Is he still…"
"No, he's not," Sydney answered the unfinished question. "He had a stroke a day or so ago – he's in a coma down in Renewal."
"So who's in charge now? Lyle, I suppose…"
Jarod heard Sydney sigh. "You aren't going to believe this…"