Chapter Seven

Thursday 1st December 1988

London.

Sam spent the best part of the day – or perhaps it was the worst part of the day – in frustrated inactivity. Too keyed up and anxious to rest abed as instructed, yet too dizzy and disoriented to achieve anything worthwhile. He sat down several times to study the maps he had procured, but each session soon ended abruptly with roads blurring into a tangle of colored knitting yarns before his weary eyes. After more than an hour, all he had managed to ascertain was that Brogborough was in the county of Bedfordshire and was situated some 50 miles or so north of London.

He could neither watch the television nor play the piano, for the noise made his head throb abominably. He was too unsteady to pace the floor, yet too restless to sit still. He ordered a midday meal, but had no appetite to consume more than a few morsels before it made him feel nauseas again.

At least once every ten minutes thereafter, he went to the door to look for signs of the money being delivered. Part of him was fearful of undertaking such a long drive in his present condition, but the greater part was anxious to be getting on with it. Each second the children remained in the clutches of those ruffians was a moment's danger too long.

Shutting the door for the hundredth time on a stubbornly empty corridor, Sam leant against the wall and sighed a deep sigh borne of impatience mingled with exhaustion. Closing his eyes to give them a brief respite from the strain of focusing, he lost himself for a while, drifting away from his problems and letting his mind wander to more pleasant pastures.

It did not work for long.

Sharp images of the girls – bloodied and lifeless – invaded his reverie, causing him to gasp. With a jerk of his head, his eyes snapped open and he wiped down his face with the flat of his hand, as if trying to erase the after-image from his retinas. A series of staccato breaths carried him to the Queen Anne chair into which he all but fell – legs and arms trembling. Looking down, he clasped his hands together, each one trying to still the quivering of the other.

A multitude of startled Lepidoptera took frantic flight in his thoracic cavity.

"Pull yerself together," he admonished himself aloud, "Oi bet de real Mary wouldn't be falling apart at the seams like dis, cowering in a corner feeling sorry for herself."

"Hey, cut yourself some slack, buddy." Al appeared just in time to hear Sam's private pep talk.

After a restless night worrying about the mess they had gotten David Beckett into, Al had risen early Tuesday morning and dressed in his Navy Whites. He'd been places and seen people trying to call in favors and/or pull rank in an attempt to afford the young man some protection, but so far he was less than satisfied with the results. He would have to resume his rounds later, for now – Ziggy informed him – the delivery of the ransom money was imminent and Sam may well be in need of Al's own unique brand of back up during the exchange.

Sam was visibly startled by the intrusion and turned abruptly to face the new arrival, wincing at the incautious movement.

"How many times do Oi have t' tell ya--" he began.

"--don't do that!" Al finished with him. "I know, sorry pal. I thought you'd be in bed." The tone was unmistakable in its condemnation of Sam's disobedience. Not that he would gloat, or say 'told you so'. He took absolutely no delight in his friend's plight.

"Would you believe 'Oi just got up'?" queried Sam, knowing he was fooling no one.

"Sure, whatever you say." Al closed the subject with a dismissive wave of his hand, and the punch line "But then, I'd believe it if you told me that Melinda Messenger was a man!"

"Yeah, right. So are ya trying to work up a double act, or is there a reason fer this visit?"

"It's time, Sam." Al informed him, just as the knock finally sounded on the door.

Sam curbed his instinct to pounce on the door, and rose sedately to his feet, admitting Otis, carrying a huge attaché case. There was no sign of Lyle Strickland.

"Is it all in there?" Sam asked the courier, waving his hand in the direction of the bag.

"Every last red cent, Mary," replied Otis; looking somewhat awed at the thought of having carried that much cash from the bank without getting mugged on the way.

Al was button bashing, calling up a resume on the new arrival.

"This is Otis Johnson, Sam. 27 years old. Company Secretary and Strickland's Personal Assistant for the past three years. Seems like a regular guy."

"Oi tort so." Sam confirmed, letting Al know he was telling him nothing new. Although a second name was useful for his mental archive, it seemed that first name terms applied.

Otis favored Mary with a sidelong glance, wondering at the odd comment. Then he shrugged it off as one of Mary's little idiosyncrasies or a side effect of her recent injury. She certainly looked pretty awful. It didn't help that she wasn't wearing any make-up. In all the time he'd known her, Mary had always taken the trouble to apply make-up. Understated, admittedly, subtle and unobtrusive, but enough to give her complexion a healthy glow and her lips a little color. Today, she was au naturelle and it didn't suit her at all. She looked ten years older and haggard and grey.

One thing was for sure; Mary wasn't herself at the moment.

Otis placed the bag carefully on the table and snapped open the catches, lifting the lid to reveal row upon row of neatly stacked, paper wrapped crisp bundles of £50 notes, sterling.

Al, looking over the young man's shoulder, emitted a long slow whistle at the sight of so much money. "That'd pay my alimony bills for a while!" he commented with a grin.

Sam glared at him, and then without a word he began to transfer the cash into Mary's carpetbag, which he had already fetched during his long wait. Ever attentive, Otis assisted him and though it had appeared a bottomless pit, it was nonetheless almost brimful by the time they had finished.

Sam closed the zipper firmly, tucked the maps in an outer pocket and lifted the bag down. As the force of gravity took over from the support of the table, the bulging sack plummeted floor-ward, jerking Sam's arm sharply and almost tipping him completely off balance. Otis put out a steadying hand and with the other helped him to take the weight and lower it to the ground.

"Are youse okay?" he asked, seeing the woman's face blanche, the eyes momentarily unfocused.

"Sure. 'Tis just a wee bit heavier than me smalls is all." Sam laughed feebly.

Al wasn't convinced and shook his head, conferring upon Sam a full 43-muscle frown.

Otis wasn't convinced either.

"It ain't too late, Mary. If youse don't feel up for it, I can make de run instead. I'll square it with da boss." He picked up the car keys for emphasis.

"T'anks, Otis," replied Sam, tempted for a split second to take him up on his offer. He knew he really shouldn't be driving in his current condition. "But who'd square it wit da kidnappers? No, Oi'll be fine." Sam held his hand out with some slight reluctance for the key ring with its white swan motif, which had hitherto proclaimed to him the presence of a self-drive hire car.

Otis knew better than to contradict Mary, but that didn't negate his concern. "Youse knows best, Mary. But youse gotta at least let me walk ya to da car." He sniggered self-consciously, as if he expected his gallantry to be misinterpreted. "I ain't never gonna get my hands on this much mazuma again. Let me savor the moment a while longer, huh?" he gave Sam the sort of look a kid gives his parents when seeking permission to stay up late 'Just this once' because there is something special on TV.

A look that reminded him of the girls.

"Be my guest." Sam made a sweeping gesture toward the swag bag. Thelma Beckett didn't raise no fools. Having Otis guide him to the right vehicle could well save him much valuable time and frustration. And the bag was heavy. Sam needed to conserve what little strength he had for whatever lay ahead.

Sam put on Mary's thick velour three-quarter length camel colored coat, dropping the keys to the suite into the left-hand patch pocket. He glanced at his watch.

3:12pm.

The countdown had begun.

Tuesday 7th January 2003

QLHQ

9:18pm

Verbena Beeks was agitated and it showed.

"Come on over here and sit yourself down." Mary patted the bed beside her to underline the invitation.

The doctor smiled and obeyed. Right now she needed to talk with the levelheaded Mrs. McGillicuddy, who had sensed her unspoken cry for help and readily reversed their roles.

Beeks had kept her promises and spoken to both Gushie and Rusty. Spoken to being the operative word, as neither man had been in communicative mood. Other than confirming their girlfriend's observations, she had achieved nothing.

Feeling frustrated the good doctor had made a point of speaking to as many Project personnel as she could during the day. She had been looking to establish how far the malaise had spread and in which directions, trying to find a pattern.

However, to her surprise and relief, aside from the Admiral displaying a degree of irascibility even greater than the norm, so far the rest of the team seemed unaffected. Though this was small comfort when weighed against her lack of progress in determining both a cause for the aberrant behavior and a means of restoring the status quo. The only common experience the two had shared was the bomb incident.

For a while Verbena considered Post Traumatic Stress, but the symptoms were not exactly typical and she relegated it to the bottom of her list of likely causes. Once again, had she consulted Ziggy, she might have discovered that she had hit upon the right point of origin, even though she had reached the wrong conclusion from it.

The fact that the problem had reached the attention of even the most isolated person on site – namely Mary – bode ill. The only ray of light this tunnel offered was that it allowed Beeks to feel justified in debating the matter with her.

It had happened shortly before Bena arrived at the Waiting Room that evening. Al had called in on Mary prior to re-joining Sam, and – she told Beeks – had been as charming as ever, though somewhat preoccupied.

This much was nothing new. It was when he left that the balloon had gone up.

Project policy was to have long shifts among the guards on duty outside the Waiting Room, for two main reasons. Firstly: the fewer faces seen by their guests, the smaller the risk to security (they never knew when one of the personnel's antecedents might turn up - among other considerations). Secondly, Dr. Beeks felt it would be more reassuring for the residents if they could recognize 'a friendly face', rather than have a never-ending series of strangers in the jailer's role.

Thus it was that when Al emerged, Corporal Kincaid had just reported back on duty. That in itself was cause for criticism, as Corporal Matt Langley – whom he was relieving – had been due off duty half an hour earlier. Al had remarked the fact as he entered, but Langley had covered for his colleague with a plausible excuse for the unofficial change of schedule. Although when Rusty finally arrived, he was less than grateful, nor was he apologetic for the trouble he'd caused. On the contrary, he had practically snapped the poor man's head off for daring to comment.

Now it was Rusty's turn to be chewed out, as Al stopped in his tracks in the doorway, allowing Mary to witness their exchange. Luckily, she was not the type to use it to her advantage as a chance to bolt for freedom.

This time, Rusty was not merely slow in saluting; he omitted the gesture completely.

The Admiral took one look at him and barked, "Call that a uniform, Corporal? Look at you. You're a disgrace!"

In complete and total contrast to his normal 'by the book', 'fine example of a military man' smart appearance, today Kincaid was unshaven and his uniform creased, the tie knotted loosely and hanging low and awry. The shoes were unpolished. His whole demeanor was languid. Far from being contrite, the Corporal shrugged off the rebuke as if it were beneath his dignity to respond.

Which of course enraged the senior officer still further.

"Stand to attention when I'm talking to you, soldier!" he snapped, unaccustomed to such a blatant lack of respect. Kincaid merely mouthed the words back at him mockingly, bobbing his head from side to side, an insolent schoolboy unafraid of the Principal's wrath.

Mary had noticed the tension in Al's stance. She saw the fists clench, and wondered for a moment if her 'little leprechaun' was going to deck the young man.

"Oi t'ink Oi must have gasped," she told Bena, "cos he half turned back to look at me."

The distraction evidently diffused the situation somewhat, and caused Al to reassess his priorities. He glanced at his watch.

"Consider this your lucky day, Mister," he told Rusty. "I'm turning a blind eye to this uh, episode, but only because of your outstanding performance the other day. Get yourself smartened up before I lay eyes on you again, and buck up your ideas, or I'll have you on report so fast your feet won't touch the ground!"

Without waiting for Rusty's acquiescence, which in any case was conspicuous by its absence, the Admiral strode off to the Imaging Chamber, leaving Mary to glimpse the young man's expression, which was a curious mixture of loathing and apathy.

"He's awa' wit' the faeries, that one," she observed to Verbena, who conceded that this was one diagnosis she had not considered.

"Oi take it he's not normally loike dis?" Mary asked.

"Not at all," confirmed the psychiatrist, "Far from it. Rusty is one of the finest. 'Wicked sense of humor, but solid as a rock. His girlfriend thought he'd become schizoid, but he doesn't really fit the profile, despite the personality change. I've ruled out tumors on the frontal lobe and hypothalamus too, both of which can be characterized by similar behavioral manifestations. Frankly, I'm fresh out of ideas. I can't even be sure if the cause is physical or purely psychological. I'm primarily a psychiatrist rather than a neurologist." She paused to look at Mary, stranded in Dr. Beckett's aura. "Sam would be much better clued up. I bet he could work out what was wrong in no time," she said wistfully.

"You miss him a lot, don't you?" Mary was nothing if not perceptive. She patted Verbena's arm.

"We all do, Mary. We all do."

Los Angeles

Tuesday 7th January 2003

David rose from his work to answer the door, having realized at last that his wife was not at home, since the bell had rung incessantly for several minutes and Sally could never have ignored it. It wasn't in her nature.

Standing outside was a woman in her late thirties, wearing a crisp linen suit and carrying a briefcase. In her other hand she held a wad of papers.

"Good evening. Mr. Beckett?" she enquired.

"Yes, that's me," confirmed David, puzzled.

"I am sorry to call at such an unfortunate time." The woman cleared her throat, embarrassed. Her line of work was seldom pleasant, and normally she was hardened to it. Yet this seemed like kicking a man when he was down. "My name is Joanne Balfour. I'm a Processor. I'm afraid I am the bearer of more bad news for you." She held out the papers towards him and he took them without taking his eyes from the woman's face. "I am here to serve these divorce papers on you."

She didn't normally work this late, and the papers were hot off the press, prepared with remarkable haste by one of the city's top lawyers. But then money such as the Reynolds family commanded could buy almost anything.

David was stunned, bewilderment written all over his face. He looked from the woman to the documents in his hand and back again. Unable to take in the reason for her presence, he latched on to the rest of her statement.

"More bad news?" he queried.

By way of reply, she inclined her head in the direction of the open door. David turned to follow her gaze and drew in a sharp breath.

Pinned firmly to the wood paneling was a large wreath across which stretched a broad black ribbon boldly bearing the letters R.I.P. in white silk.

Clearly Ruggiero was letting David know that he knew where his intended victim lived and could get at him any time he wanted.

David thanked Ms Balfour for her condolences, looking at her without actually seeing her.

Wishing him happier times ahead, she departed.

He closed the door and walked like a zombie back into his eerily silent home.

Some hours later he came to himself, finding that he was sitting in his bedroom in the dark with the papers as yet unopened in his hand. He put the light on and read them, comprehension slowly dawning. Then he stood up and opened the door to Sally's walk-in wardrobe. He was not really surprised to find it stripped bare, and only wondered when she had emptied it, and whether or not he should have had time to notice.