All disclaimers in Chapter One.
Here's the deal: if I get more reviews, I post more parts. Still slogging away at this. (No, the full story is not complete.) Read and review, please. :)
Murphy's Law
by Amanda Ohlin
CHAPTER TWO
Manhattan
9:30 p.m.
"If this is a guest room," Heather muttered, "I don't even want to see the master bedroom."
The room that Leflin had showed them to was about the size of Lisa's living room; along with the bed in one corner, there was an adjoining bathroom and an armchair and sofa. It was apparently one of many, Leflin had informed them, offering to show Michael and Heather separate rooms. But Michael - and Lisa, surprisingly - had refused.
Michael shut and locked the bedroom door, somewhat relieved that it locked from the inside. "They're gone. It's just us."
"All right, that's it," Lisa snapped. "I want to know what's going on, right now!"
"You think this place could be bugged?" Heather wondered.
"Lisa," Michael began, "it's not that easy to explain--"
"Try me! You said you'd take care of it! And look where we are now!"
Heather peered under the coffee table. "They might have hidden cameras or something."
"I didn't know the Doc saw us then!" Michael exclaimed, and Lisa abruptly fell silent. "He knew you were there. He - he actually thought I told you something. I tried to tell him the truth, but he wasn't listening!"
Heather looked up. "Mom?"
"Tried? Tried? One minute I'm sitting down to dinner with my daughter, the next I'm being chased by men with guns and dogs!" Lisa exploded.
Heather opened her mouth again to speak, but then closed it. She stared at the two adults, weighing her options, and finally decided to retreat to the sofa and stay safely on the sidelines.
"What would you have wanted me to do?" Michael cried, frustrated. "I wasn't just going to take off and not try to warn you! No matter what I did, they would have come after you!"
"Who? Who would come after me?" Lisa demanded, grabbing him by the collar of his jacket. Stunned, Michael was at a loss to reply. After a moment, Lisa let go of his coat and stalked away. "I don't believe this. I just don't believe this. I have to be at work tomorrow morning. Heather has band practice all this week. I actually had a client lined up. And I can't even get within sight of my home!"
"Neither can I!"
"So? I wouldn't be surprised if you got us into this mess in the first place!" Lisa snapped. "I don't know what you're up to, Mr. Newman, but all I wanted was the truth. All I wanted was to find out what happened to my husband!"
"It's not about your husband!" The words skipped his brain and went right out of his mouth. But somehow, they silenced Lisa. "It's not about your husband," Michael added more quietly, frantically trying to figure out where he was going with this.
"Hey!" Heather took the risk of speaking up. "What's this got to do with Daddy?"
Michael looked over at Heather and sighed. Sitting in the center of the plush sofa, she looked smaller than usual and even more confused than Lisa. The only thing that kept him from going over there and hugging his little girl was - well, he didn't know what it was. "Mom?" Heather asked as Lisa looked away. The scared look in her eyes faded as they narrowed suspiciously. "Mom, what's going on?"
For answer, Lisa groaned and sank down to sit on the edge of the bed, burying her face in her hands. Slowly, trying not to spook her, Michael sat down next to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Lisa. At least tell me what happened. I'll tell you what I can." She didn't move. "Please."
Still no response. Sighing, Heather got up and sat down on the other side of Lisa. The scared child was gone, and the teenager was all business. "Mom, what happened?" Lisa didn't respond. "I'm missing out on microwaved sushi for this. You owe me an explanation."
Despite herself, Lisa couldn't stifle a chuckle at that. Taking a deep breath, she sat up, brushing her hair out of her face and wiping her eyes. "I guess I do, don't I?" She reached over and squeezed Heather's hand before starting. "Whole thing started when I got a call from this lawyer..."
*****
New Rochelle, NY
"Finally decided to listen to me?" Lydia asked as Morris and Special Agent #1 entered the office. "It's not like you to admit you made a mistake."
"I did not make a mistake," Morris snapped. "But our search has yielded nothing but an irate Senator and a miniature riot, and you insisted on gracing us with your presence."
"Oh, yes, Bellingham. Heard he was furious. Shame you had to resort to these methods." The smirk faded abruptly as she continued. "I've been keeping track of your project for the past four months, and I've noticed a few details that you have neglected."
"'Keeping track?' Isn't that your phrase for 'spying?'" Morris replied.
"Not when it's sanctioned by the Pentagon. They didn't have a problem with it, seeing as how I was supposed to be involved in the project from the beginning. As you well know."
Special Agent #1 blinked. "I'm sorry?"
Morris sighed. "Dr. Ross was originally a member of the team when the project was in the initial research and development stage - her background in neuropsychology and sociology was indispensable to us."
"Until I made the fatal mistake of disagreeing with our all-seeing project coordinator over here," Lydia added. "Next thing I know, I'm reassigned to an army base in Wyoming."
"They specifically requested you," Morris pointed out.
"And you were *all* too eager to let me go," Lydia countered. "Despite knowing that I had invested quite a bit of time and effort into your work."
"Still not the type to hold grudges, I see."
The bald agent looked puzzled. "If I'm not mistaken, you specifically said you've been investigating for only four months. The project was initiated over eighteen months ago. Why wait so long?"
"I actually didn't intend to stick my nose into things at first," Lydia admitted. "But in January, I had the fortune to meet a Lieutenant Erica Taylor. It seems that since I also had clearance for the project she had just been assigned to, she was sent to me. And she told me some very interesting things." Lydia folded her arms. "I thought you could be devious, Dr. Morris, but I had no idea how far you would go."
"Get to the point," Morris growled.
"All right." She stood up. "Gentlemen, the reason the Pentagon does not know of this is because I have yet to tell them. Lately, it's been my job to send coordinating reports to the Pentagon on your progress just to make sure you haven't dropped the ball."
"You're investigating us?" Morris snapped. "We already have our funding--"
"But there are still people who want to shut you down," Lydia replied. "What they don't know is that I'm not one of them. And if you swallow your pride long enough to listen to me, they're not going to hear about this any time soon."
The Doc did not reply for several seconds. "What 'details' are you talking about?"
"Don't you find it odd that after all this time - and now, only when Mr. Wiseman did not have a tracking device - that his wife finally found something out?"
Special Agent #1 shrugged. "Well, you've heard of Murphy's Law."
"Not to this extent," Lydia continued. "Mrs. Wiseman got your name and number from Manhattan General, am I correct?"
"So far," Morris answered.
"I did some checking around. Interestingly enough, someone else was asking questions about Michael Wiseman's accident - the very same night that she called you."
Morris sat up. "Who else?"
Lydia smiled, gratified that she had his attention. "A lawyer by the name of Edward Bernstadt. Seems he also got his grubby little paws on the ambulance records from Mr. Wiseman's accident - records with your signature on them."
"What?" Morris exclaimed. "That's impossible. He couldn't have possibly gotten that information!"
*****
"Wait a minute. This lawyer just got his hands on ambulance records?" Michael asked. "Just like that?"
"That's - that's what he told me," Lisa replied. "Why?"
"Uh, I'm no expert," Michael said quickly, "but I know the hospital won't give out those kind of records without the consent of immediate family members. They're legally bound to withhold them from anyone else."
*****
"Those were classified records," Morris growled. "The only reason for their existence was proof to the Pentagon that the operation was not handled illegally. No matter how high-paid, a lawyer can't just waltz in and snatch them up."
"Unless someone pulled a few strings for him," Special Agent #1 realized suddenly.
Lydia nodded. "That's what I was thinking."
*****
"But why would someone do that?" Lisa wondered. "Who would?"
"I don't know," Michael admitted. "I guess someone wanted to throw a wrench into the project the Doc was working on."
"What is this project?" Lisa demanded. "And what does it have to do with Michael?"
"Nothing!" Michael lied desperately. "Look. I don't know much about the business with - with your husband and the Doc, but you've got to believe me when I tell you there's something bigger going on behind this. There are people willing to kill to keep it under wraps." Lisa flinched, but didn't press further. "Why did he say he got his hands on them?"
*****
"He was supposedly collecting information for a lawsuit about faulty respirators," Lydia replied. "The resident on duty couldn't give me a lot of details, but it sounded like a cover."
"I'm not so sure," Morris mused. "I'm fully aware that we have opponents in the Pentagon, but I can't see how it would benefit any of them to jeopardize the project in this manner."
"If you give me time to investigate further," Lydia countered, "I'm willing to bet I can dig up an answer to that one."
Special Agent #1 looked confused. "Who would endanger security like that, though? It's one thing to cut funding, but this... I don't think anyone from Washington would stoop so low."
"Tell me you haven't forgotten Howard Irving already."
Both men flinched at her words. Irving's treason had shaken up a lot of things at the Pentagon; the fact that Michael had foiled his attempt was the only reason their funding wasn't revoked or re-reviewed.
Lydia raised an eyebrow. "I'll take that as a 'no.'"
*****
"The hospital told me he died instantly," Lisa explained. "But according to this Bernstadt character, he was on life-support when they reached the hospital. He said - he said that there was a flaw in the respirator, that Michael might have lived had it been working properly."
Stunned, Michael turned away. "He - he might have survived?"
"Well, that's what the man told me. Of course, he was trying to sue the company." Lisa hesitated. "You didn't know about that?"
Michael shook his head. "No. No, I didn't. Not about *that.*"
"You said you'd sue the bastards, aren't you?" Heather asked. "I mean, come on, Mom!"
"I didn't exactly get that far," Lisa sighed. "I-I don't know. I'm confused, I'm tired, and I don't know what to do."
"Maybe we ought to get some sleep," Michael suggested. As Lisa stared at him, he added. "I'll take the chair."
"No, I mean - can we sleep? Do you trust this Isley, or Leflin, or whatever his name is?"
"No," Michael admitted. "But I don't know what else to do right now."
Heather hopped up and bounded over to the sofa. "I call dibs on the couch."
"Heather," Lisa sighed, "you can have the bed."
"Mom, *I* can fit on the couch, okay?"
Lisa smiled, then turned back to Michael. "All right, Mr. Newman. I guess we're staying here tonight."
******
"So you think someone set this up," Morris said. "How should this affect our search for Mr. Wiseman?"
"Again, you should consider *why* he ran," Lydia answered. "He had ten days in which he could have escaped easily. Maybe in the middle of the night, when you weren't there. Or even at the bookstore you took him to. On the way back. In that museum right after you removed it. But only when he thought his wife and daughter were in danger--"
"Enough," Morris sighed. "You've done your homework, I see."
Before he could continue, his cellphone rang. Sighing, he retrieved it and opened the phone. "Yes?" He froze, listening to the voice on the other end. "*What* happened?" Pause. "Are you sure it was the same man?" From the expression on his face, the answer was clearly in the affirmative. "How long ago?" Another pause. "Damn. Yes, I'll be right there."
He closed the phone and put it away, standing up. "You'll have to continue this without me."
"What is it?" Lydia asked.
"Another possible complication." To Special Agent #1, he added, "You're to assist Dr. Ross in her investigations - within reason. Be sure to report to me if anything turns up."
Morris turned to go, but the agent followed him into the hall, pulling him aside. "Sir, are you positive about this? We can't afford to be sidetracked."
"We've already been sidetracked," Morris told him quietly. "Let me tell you something. Dr. Ross may be infuriating, manipulative, stubborn, outspoken--" He caught himself. "But that woman is also someone that we want on our side."
The bald agent stared at his boss. "This is serious, isn't it?"
Morris nodded solemnly. "Murphy's Law. In spades."
*****
Manhattan
10:30 p.m.
For once, Michael couldn't sleep. And it wasn't just because his leather jacket made a lousy pillow.
He sat there in the armchair, staring blankly at the door. He had turned the chair towards the door in the faint hope that he might stay awake long enough to keep watch. It hadn't occurred to him that sleep tonight would be utterly impossible.
Lisa and Heather, at least, weren't suffering from the same affliction; Lisa had kicked her shoes off and snuggled up in the bed, while Heather was curled up on the sofa, dead to the world. Michael smiled, glad to see that they were at least resting. They needed it as much as he did. While he wasn't physically exhausted, emotionally he was drained. In the course of an afternoon, he'd kissed Lisa, punched out the Doc, hustled his family out of the house on a mad dash, and then gone and lied to them. Lied to Lisa.
That was what really hurt.
Rarely had he ever been able to lie to her, and whenever he did, it hurt. He'd done it fairly well, too, which only made it worse. While he regretted punching the Doc, just lying to Lisa was as bad as a hundred blows to the face. He remembered holding her in the bookstore, savoring the scent of her hair and the feel of her cheek against his while fearing for her life at the same time. If not for that threat, if not for the fear...
"It's not about your husband" - the words still tasted bitter in his mouth.
The clock struck eleven, and Michael sighed, briefly thinking of the lights that were automatically shutting off and the curtains that were closing in his bedroom. He wasn't anywhere near the townhouse, but this still felt like just as much of a prison.
He'd been truthful when he told Lisa that he didn't trust Leflin. Whatever the man wanted out of this, it wasn't anything good. But for the moment, there was nowhere else to turn. No one else they could even pretend to trust. Well, there was probably *one* person, but if PFC Foster had any sense he'd be out of the country by now.
Michael gave up on sleep for the moment. Slowly, quietly, he moved to the bathroom, trying not to disturb Lisa or Heather. Lisa rolled over, but did not stir. Heather didn't move a muscle as Michael turned the bathroom light on, closing the door behind him.
He washed his hands and splashed his face with cold water, trying to think. What could he tell them? Snatching a towel from the rack, he wiped his face dry, staring at his reflection in the mirror. For the nth time in the past year, a stranger stared back at him. It wasn't even his reflection, but a borrowed face and body. And it always would be. Sure, he knew better. He knew that underneath it all, he was still the same person - whether Dr. Morris liked it or not.
But how could he tell Lisa and Heather that?
The twentysomething in the mirror stared back at Michael sorrowfully as the reality of his situation hit him. He'd come so close to telling them. The words had been on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't force them out of his mouth. As much as it hurt him to lie to them, he couldn't tell them the truth. He couldn't.
A strange, muffled sound was coming through the door. Worried, Michael hastily finished washing up and slipped back into the bedroom to see what it was.
"No, wait... please..." he heard his wife moan as he shut the bathroom light off. Lisa had progressed from rolling over to thrashing around wildly in her sleep, in the throes of a nightmare. "No! Michael! I... no... Michael, Michael... help..."
Heather was still fast asleep. Moving as quickly as he could without making noise, Michael dashed over to the bed, shaking Lisa gently. "Lisa!" he whispered. "Lisa! Wake up!"
"... no, no, NO!" She woke up with a start, lashing out wildly and clawing at the air.
Anyone else might have been injured, but Michael was quick enough to catch her by the wrists before she could do some damage. "Lisa. It's okay. It's me."
She realized where she was and stopped. "M-Mr. Newman?"
_Mr. Newman. That's who she thinks I am._ "Yeah. I'm here. It's all right."
"But - Heather--"
Michael turned to one side, sitting down on the edge of the bed so she had a clear view of the sofa. "Is somehow sleeping like a log." He released her wrists as she sat up, shaking. "You were having a nightmare."
"Oh, God." She covered her face with her hands. "Oh, God. It was - it was awful. I saw Michael, and he was there and then he was dead... and there were people with guns... Heather was gone... and you..." She couldn't finish, unable to suppress her sobs.
Michael couldn't bear it anymore. "Oh, God, Lisie," he murmured. She didn't resist as he pulled her into his arms. So distressed was she that she didn't seem to notice his slip as Michael held her. "Lisa, I'm so sorry."
Reflexively, she hugged him back, and they remained like that for several moments, clinging to one another. "I-I almost hoped I'd wake up in my own bed and this would all be a dream," Lisa moaned.
"I'm sorry," Michael whispered into her hair. "I'm going to fix this. I don't know how, but I'm gonna make things right. I promise."
Lisa lifted her head to look at him, pulling away. "Why? Why do you care?"
"Because I can't - I won't let anything happen to you." He took a deep breath, thinking for a second. "Lisa, I'm serious. There's a lot more to this thing than a bunch of ambulance records, but - but my boss thinks you know more than that."
"The I.R.S. is willing to kill to keep its business secret nowadays, huh?" Lisa said sarcastically. Michael winced at the bitterness in her tone. "Oh, come on, Mr. Newman, I'm not stupid. I know that I.R.S. story you told me was just a story. A lie."
"I never lied to you about that."
"Of course you did! The--"
"The Doc told you that," Michael corrected. "I - I just had to go along with it. I didn't have a choice."
"What are you talking about?"
Michael sighed, suddenly getting a flash of inspiration. "About a year or so ago, I kind of ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. I, uh, I found out some stuff I shouldn't have. That's how I got wrapped up in all of this."
Lisa cocked her head, looking at him thoughtfully. "A year ago?" Michael nodded. "Did that have anything to do with you running around Manhattan with the 'no shirt, no shoes, no service' motif?"
Despite himself, Michael had to smile. "Yeah, that had a little to do with it." He became serious again. "I'm telling you, though, that you can't keep - investigating. It's too dangerous, and it's not worth it."
"I'm convinced of that already," Lisa sighed. "But what about my husband? What did they do to Michael?"
"Nothing," Michael insisted, taking her hands in his. "Lisa, I swear to God, no one 'did anything' to your husband. Nothing unethical was involved." _Well, the Doc did ask permission. And I'd be dead otherwise._ "You have to believe me."
She was silent for a moment, looking away. "I don't know who to believe anymore."
"I don't blame you," Michael sighed.
"But, you know, you were right about something," Lisa added.
"What's that?"
"You, Mr. Newman, are most certainly not what I thought you were."
"Thanks. I think."
Lisa looked up, managing a small smile. "I do know one thing, though. This is one promise that I am definitely holding you to."
*****
Outside New York State Penitentiary
"My God," Dr. Morris murmured as he flipped through the digital photos, each one showing a different wing, room, cell of the penitentiary. The scene was always the same, showing bodies lying in puddles of blood. The entire penitentiary - prisoners and guards alike - had been wiped out by the toxin. The teams that had already arrived had set up camp around the building's perimeter, and Morris was currently in the back of an FBI surveillance van, which was almost as well equipped as the "TOYS B FUN" truck. Almost.
He set the photos down and sighed, removing his glasses briefly to rub the bridge of his nose. "Has the toxin been contained?"
The FBI agent, a narrow-faced woman in her mid-thirties, nodded. "We sealed off the building several hours ago. All of the prisoners and guards have been accounted for, with two exceptions."
Morris looked up. "Two?"
"Both of them prisoners." The agent opened a laptop, typing in a series of commands as she accessed prison records. She brought up a file, and the face that appeared on the screen belonged to a burly, bearded man with a nest of curly brown hair. "Charlie Smalls. Name's misleading as hell; the man is built like a tank. This was his second time in the pen. First time, he was convicted on assault and battery as well as two counts of robbery. Got out on good behavior, but then came right back in with larceny, three counts of battery and one count of attempted murder and manslaughter."
"Not someone I'd want to meet on a bad day."
"You wouldn't know it the way he acted. Never started a fight, never talked back, got a relatively cushy job in the kitchen as a result. The security tapes showed him and his cellmate walking right out of here when everyone else was keeling over."
The face that came with the next file was the one that Morris expected; a wispy, elderly Asian man with a serenely calm expression on his face. Only someone who knew better would guess at the menace behind that unassuming exterior. "I assume you know this man, of course. Like Smalls, he wasn't considered a major threat. Couple months into his imprisonment, he was diagnosed with emphysema and has been hooked up to an oxygen tank for several months. Same M.O. as before - the HAZMAT team that went in first discovered the broken egg at the center of the concentration."
Morris nodded. "What I don't understand is why, exactly, I was contacted about this. We know who he is this time, and we know how he does it."
"Well, your... ah, your prototype was the one who caught him in the first place." Morris glowered at the mention of Michael, and the agent retrieved a plastic evidence bag from a drawer. "And after this was found, we suspected we might need your services again."
Confused, Morris took the bag from her. Inside was a shred of paper, with Chinese characters scribbled on it. "What is this?"
"That note was found lying on Smalls' bunk," the woman replied.
"So?"
"There's only one word on the note," she continued. "Loosely translated, it means 'revenge.'"
*****
to be continued...
Here's the deal: if I get more reviews, I post more parts. Still slogging away at this. (No, the full story is not complete.) Read and review, please. :)
Murphy's Law
by Amanda Ohlin
CHAPTER TWO
Manhattan
9:30 p.m.
"If this is a guest room," Heather muttered, "I don't even want to see the master bedroom."
The room that Leflin had showed them to was about the size of Lisa's living room; along with the bed in one corner, there was an adjoining bathroom and an armchair and sofa. It was apparently one of many, Leflin had informed them, offering to show Michael and Heather separate rooms. But Michael - and Lisa, surprisingly - had refused.
Michael shut and locked the bedroom door, somewhat relieved that it locked from the inside. "They're gone. It's just us."
"All right, that's it," Lisa snapped. "I want to know what's going on, right now!"
"You think this place could be bugged?" Heather wondered.
"Lisa," Michael began, "it's not that easy to explain--"
"Try me! You said you'd take care of it! And look where we are now!"
Heather peered under the coffee table. "They might have hidden cameras or something."
"I didn't know the Doc saw us then!" Michael exclaimed, and Lisa abruptly fell silent. "He knew you were there. He - he actually thought I told you something. I tried to tell him the truth, but he wasn't listening!"
Heather looked up. "Mom?"
"Tried? Tried? One minute I'm sitting down to dinner with my daughter, the next I'm being chased by men with guns and dogs!" Lisa exploded.
Heather opened her mouth again to speak, but then closed it. She stared at the two adults, weighing her options, and finally decided to retreat to the sofa and stay safely on the sidelines.
"What would you have wanted me to do?" Michael cried, frustrated. "I wasn't just going to take off and not try to warn you! No matter what I did, they would have come after you!"
"Who? Who would come after me?" Lisa demanded, grabbing him by the collar of his jacket. Stunned, Michael was at a loss to reply. After a moment, Lisa let go of his coat and stalked away. "I don't believe this. I just don't believe this. I have to be at work tomorrow morning. Heather has band practice all this week. I actually had a client lined up. And I can't even get within sight of my home!"
"Neither can I!"
"So? I wouldn't be surprised if you got us into this mess in the first place!" Lisa snapped. "I don't know what you're up to, Mr. Newman, but all I wanted was the truth. All I wanted was to find out what happened to my husband!"
"It's not about your husband!" The words skipped his brain and went right out of his mouth. But somehow, they silenced Lisa. "It's not about your husband," Michael added more quietly, frantically trying to figure out where he was going with this.
"Hey!" Heather took the risk of speaking up. "What's this got to do with Daddy?"
Michael looked over at Heather and sighed. Sitting in the center of the plush sofa, she looked smaller than usual and even more confused than Lisa. The only thing that kept him from going over there and hugging his little girl was - well, he didn't know what it was. "Mom?" Heather asked as Lisa looked away. The scared look in her eyes faded as they narrowed suspiciously. "Mom, what's going on?"
For answer, Lisa groaned and sank down to sit on the edge of the bed, burying her face in her hands. Slowly, trying not to spook her, Michael sat down next to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Lisa. At least tell me what happened. I'll tell you what I can." She didn't move. "Please."
Still no response. Sighing, Heather got up and sat down on the other side of Lisa. The scared child was gone, and the teenager was all business. "Mom, what happened?" Lisa didn't respond. "I'm missing out on microwaved sushi for this. You owe me an explanation."
Despite herself, Lisa couldn't stifle a chuckle at that. Taking a deep breath, she sat up, brushing her hair out of her face and wiping her eyes. "I guess I do, don't I?" She reached over and squeezed Heather's hand before starting. "Whole thing started when I got a call from this lawyer..."
*****
New Rochelle, NY
"Finally decided to listen to me?" Lydia asked as Morris and Special Agent #1 entered the office. "It's not like you to admit you made a mistake."
"I did not make a mistake," Morris snapped. "But our search has yielded nothing but an irate Senator and a miniature riot, and you insisted on gracing us with your presence."
"Oh, yes, Bellingham. Heard he was furious. Shame you had to resort to these methods." The smirk faded abruptly as she continued. "I've been keeping track of your project for the past four months, and I've noticed a few details that you have neglected."
"'Keeping track?' Isn't that your phrase for 'spying?'" Morris replied.
"Not when it's sanctioned by the Pentagon. They didn't have a problem with it, seeing as how I was supposed to be involved in the project from the beginning. As you well know."
Special Agent #1 blinked. "I'm sorry?"
Morris sighed. "Dr. Ross was originally a member of the team when the project was in the initial research and development stage - her background in neuropsychology and sociology was indispensable to us."
"Until I made the fatal mistake of disagreeing with our all-seeing project coordinator over here," Lydia added. "Next thing I know, I'm reassigned to an army base in Wyoming."
"They specifically requested you," Morris pointed out.
"And you were *all* too eager to let me go," Lydia countered. "Despite knowing that I had invested quite a bit of time and effort into your work."
"Still not the type to hold grudges, I see."
The bald agent looked puzzled. "If I'm not mistaken, you specifically said you've been investigating for only four months. The project was initiated over eighteen months ago. Why wait so long?"
"I actually didn't intend to stick my nose into things at first," Lydia admitted. "But in January, I had the fortune to meet a Lieutenant Erica Taylor. It seems that since I also had clearance for the project she had just been assigned to, she was sent to me. And she told me some very interesting things." Lydia folded her arms. "I thought you could be devious, Dr. Morris, but I had no idea how far you would go."
"Get to the point," Morris growled.
"All right." She stood up. "Gentlemen, the reason the Pentagon does not know of this is because I have yet to tell them. Lately, it's been my job to send coordinating reports to the Pentagon on your progress just to make sure you haven't dropped the ball."
"You're investigating us?" Morris snapped. "We already have our funding--"
"But there are still people who want to shut you down," Lydia replied. "What they don't know is that I'm not one of them. And if you swallow your pride long enough to listen to me, they're not going to hear about this any time soon."
The Doc did not reply for several seconds. "What 'details' are you talking about?"
"Don't you find it odd that after all this time - and now, only when Mr. Wiseman did not have a tracking device - that his wife finally found something out?"
Special Agent #1 shrugged. "Well, you've heard of Murphy's Law."
"Not to this extent," Lydia continued. "Mrs. Wiseman got your name and number from Manhattan General, am I correct?"
"So far," Morris answered.
"I did some checking around. Interestingly enough, someone else was asking questions about Michael Wiseman's accident - the very same night that she called you."
Morris sat up. "Who else?"
Lydia smiled, gratified that she had his attention. "A lawyer by the name of Edward Bernstadt. Seems he also got his grubby little paws on the ambulance records from Mr. Wiseman's accident - records with your signature on them."
"What?" Morris exclaimed. "That's impossible. He couldn't have possibly gotten that information!"
*****
"Wait a minute. This lawyer just got his hands on ambulance records?" Michael asked. "Just like that?"
"That's - that's what he told me," Lisa replied. "Why?"
"Uh, I'm no expert," Michael said quickly, "but I know the hospital won't give out those kind of records without the consent of immediate family members. They're legally bound to withhold them from anyone else."
*****
"Those were classified records," Morris growled. "The only reason for their existence was proof to the Pentagon that the operation was not handled illegally. No matter how high-paid, a lawyer can't just waltz in and snatch them up."
"Unless someone pulled a few strings for him," Special Agent #1 realized suddenly.
Lydia nodded. "That's what I was thinking."
*****
"But why would someone do that?" Lisa wondered. "Who would?"
"I don't know," Michael admitted. "I guess someone wanted to throw a wrench into the project the Doc was working on."
"What is this project?" Lisa demanded. "And what does it have to do with Michael?"
"Nothing!" Michael lied desperately. "Look. I don't know much about the business with - with your husband and the Doc, but you've got to believe me when I tell you there's something bigger going on behind this. There are people willing to kill to keep it under wraps." Lisa flinched, but didn't press further. "Why did he say he got his hands on them?"
*****
"He was supposedly collecting information for a lawsuit about faulty respirators," Lydia replied. "The resident on duty couldn't give me a lot of details, but it sounded like a cover."
"I'm not so sure," Morris mused. "I'm fully aware that we have opponents in the Pentagon, but I can't see how it would benefit any of them to jeopardize the project in this manner."
"If you give me time to investigate further," Lydia countered, "I'm willing to bet I can dig up an answer to that one."
Special Agent #1 looked confused. "Who would endanger security like that, though? It's one thing to cut funding, but this... I don't think anyone from Washington would stoop so low."
"Tell me you haven't forgotten Howard Irving already."
Both men flinched at her words. Irving's treason had shaken up a lot of things at the Pentagon; the fact that Michael had foiled his attempt was the only reason their funding wasn't revoked or re-reviewed.
Lydia raised an eyebrow. "I'll take that as a 'no.'"
*****
"The hospital told me he died instantly," Lisa explained. "But according to this Bernstadt character, he was on life-support when they reached the hospital. He said - he said that there was a flaw in the respirator, that Michael might have lived had it been working properly."
Stunned, Michael turned away. "He - he might have survived?"
"Well, that's what the man told me. Of course, he was trying to sue the company." Lisa hesitated. "You didn't know about that?"
Michael shook his head. "No. No, I didn't. Not about *that.*"
"You said you'd sue the bastards, aren't you?" Heather asked. "I mean, come on, Mom!"
"I didn't exactly get that far," Lisa sighed. "I-I don't know. I'm confused, I'm tired, and I don't know what to do."
"Maybe we ought to get some sleep," Michael suggested. As Lisa stared at him, he added. "I'll take the chair."
"No, I mean - can we sleep? Do you trust this Isley, or Leflin, or whatever his name is?"
"No," Michael admitted. "But I don't know what else to do right now."
Heather hopped up and bounded over to the sofa. "I call dibs on the couch."
"Heather," Lisa sighed, "you can have the bed."
"Mom, *I* can fit on the couch, okay?"
Lisa smiled, then turned back to Michael. "All right, Mr. Newman. I guess we're staying here tonight."
******
"So you think someone set this up," Morris said. "How should this affect our search for Mr. Wiseman?"
"Again, you should consider *why* he ran," Lydia answered. "He had ten days in which he could have escaped easily. Maybe in the middle of the night, when you weren't there. Or even at the bookstore you took him to. On the way back. In that museum right after you removed it. But only when he thought his wife and daughter were in danger--"
"Enough," Morris sighed. "You've done your homework, I see."
Before he could continue, his cellphone rang. Sighing, he retrieved it and opened the phone. "Yes?" He froze, listening to the voice on the other end. "*What* happened?" Pause. "Are you sure it was the same man?" From the expression on his face, the answer was clearly in the affirmative. "How long ago?" Another pause. "Damn. Yes, I'll be right there."
He closed the phone and put it away, standing up. "You'll have to continue this without me."
"What is it?" Lydia asked.
"Another possible complication." To Special Agent #1, he added, "You're to assist Dr. Ross in her investigations - within reason. Be sure to report to me if anything turns up."
Morris turned to go, but the agent followed him into the hall, pulling him aside. "Sir, are you positive about this? We can't afford to be sidetracked."
"We've already been sidetracked," Morris told him quietly. "Let me tell you something. Dr. Ross may be infuriating, manipulative, stubborn, outspoken--" He caught himself. "But that woman is also someone that we want on our side."
The bald agent stared at his boss. "This is serious, isn't it?"
Morris nodded solemnly. "Murphy's Law. In spades."
*****
Manhattan
10:30 p.m.
For once, Michael couldn't sleep. And it wasn't just because his leather jacket made a lousy pillow.
He sat there in the armchair, staring blankly at the door. He had turned the chair towards the door in the faint hope that he might stay awake long enough to keep watch. It hadn't occurred to him that sleep tonight would be utterly impossible.
Lisa and Heather, at least, weren't suffering from the same affliction; Lisa had kicked her shoes off and snuggled up in the bed, while Heather was curled up on the sofa, dead to the world. Michael smiled, glad to see that they were at least resting. They needed it as much as he did. While he wasn't physically exhausted, emotionally he was drained. In the course of an afternoon, he'd kissed Lisa, punched out the Doc, hustled his family out of the house on a mad dash, and then gone and lied to them. Lied to Lisa.
That was what really hurt.
Rarely had he ever been able to lie to her, and whenever he did, it hurt. He'd done it fairly well, too, which only made it worse. While he regretted punching the Doc, just lying to Lisa was as bad as a hundred blows to the face. He remembered holding her in the bookstore, savoring the scent of her hair and the feel of her cheek against his while fearing for her life at the same time. If not for that threat, if not for the fear...
"It's not about your husband" - the words still tasted bitter in his mouth.
The clock struck eleven, and Michael sighed, briefly thinking of the lights that were automatically shutting off and the curtains that were closing in his bedroom. He wasn't anywhere near the townhouse, but this still felt like just as much of a prison.
He'd been truthful when he told Lisa that he didn't trust Leflin. Whatever the man wanted out of this, it wasn't anything good. But for the moment, there was nowhere else to turn. No one else they could even pretend to trust. Well, there was probably *one* person, but if PFC Foster had any sense he'd be out of the country by now.
Michael gave up on sleep for the moment. Slowly, quietly, he moved to the bathroom, trying not to disturb Lisa or Heather. Lisa rolled over, but did not stir. Heather didn't move a muscle as Michael turned the bathroom light on, closing the door behind him.
He washed his hands and splashed his face with cold water, trying to think. What could he tell them? Snatching a towel from the rack, he wiped his face dry, staring at his reflection in the mirror. For the nth time in the past year, a stranger stared back at him. It wasn't even his reflection, but a borrowed face and body. And it always would be. Sure, he knew better. He knew that underneath it all, he was still the same person - whether Dr. Morris liked it or not.
But how could he tell Lisa and Heather that?
The twentysomething in the mirror stared back at Michael sorrowfully as the reality of his situation hit him. He'd come so close to telling them. The words had been on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't force them out of his mouth. As much as it hurt him to lie to them, he couldn't tell them the truth. He couldn't.
A strange, muffled sound was coming through the door. Worried, Michael hastily finished washing up and slipped back into the bedroom to see what it was.
"No, wait... please..." he heard his wife moan as he shut the bathroom light off. Lisa had progressed from rolling over to thrashing around wildly in her sleep, in the throes of a nightmare. "No! Michael! I... no... Michael, Michael... help..."
Heather was still fast asleep. Moving as quickly as he could without making noise, Michael dashed over to the bed, shaking Lisa gently. "Lisa!" he whispered. "Lisa! Wake up!"
"... no, no, NO!" She woke up with a start, lashing out wildly and clawing at the air.
Anyone else might have been injured, but Michael was quick enough to catch her by the wrists before she could do some damage. "Lisa. It's okay. It's me."
She realized where she was and stopped. "M-Mr. Newman?"
_Mr. Newman. That's who she thinks I am._ "Yeah. I'm here. It's all right."
"But - Heather--"
Michael turned to one side, sitting down on the edge of the bed so she had a clear view of the sofa. "Is somehow sleeping like a log." He released her wrists as she sat up, shaking. "You were having a nightmare."
"Oh, God." She covered her face with her hands. "Oh, God. It was - it was awful. I saw Michael, and he was there and then he was dead... and there were people with guns... Heather was gone... and you..." She couldn't finish, unable to suppress her sobs.
Michael couldn't bear it anymore. "Oh, God, Lisie," he murmured. She didn't resist as he pulled her into his arms. So distressed was she that she didn't seem to notice his slip as Michael held her. "Lisa, I'm so sorry."
Reflexively, she hugged him back, and they remained like that for several moments, clinging to one another. "I-I almost hoped I'd wake up in my own bed and this would all be a dream," Lisa moaned.
"I'm sorry," Michael whispered into her hair. "I'm going to fix this. I don't know how, but I'm gonna make things right. I promise."
Lisa lifted her head to look at him, pulling away. "Why? Why do you care?"
"Because I can't - I won't let anything happen to you." He took a deep breath, thinking for a second. "Lisa, I'm serious. There's a lot more to this thing than a bunch of ambulance records, but - but my boss thinks you know more than that."
"The I.R.S. is willing to kill to keep its business secret nowadays, huh?" Lisa said sarcastically. Michael winced at the bitterness in her tone. "Oh, come on, Mr. Newman, I'm not stupid. I know that I.R.S. story you told me was just a story. A lie."
"I never lied to you about that."
"Of course you did! The--"
"The Doc told you that," Michael corrected. "I - I just had to go along with it. I didn't have a choice."
"What are you talking about?"
Michael sighed, suddenly getting a flash of inspiration. "About a year or so ago, I kind of ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. I, uh, I found out some stuff I shouldn't have. That's how I got wrapped up in all of this."
Lisa cocked her head, looking at him thoughtfully. "A year ago?" Michael nodded. "Did that have anything to do with you running around Manhattan with the 'no shirt, no shoes, no service' motif?"
Despite himself, Michael had to smile. "Yeah, that had a little to do with it." He became serious again. "I'm telling you, though, that you can't keep - investigating. It's too dangerous, and it's not worth it."
"I'm convinced of that already," Lisa sighed. "But what about my husband? What did they do to Michael?"
"Nothing," Michael insisted, taking her hands in his. "Lisa, I swear to God, no one 'did anything' to your husband. Nothing unethical was involved." _Well, the Doc did ask permission. And I'd be dead otherwise._ "You have to believe me."
She was silent for a moment, looking away. "I don't know who to believe anymore."
"I don't blame you," Michael sighed.
"But, you know, you were right about something," Lisa added.
"What's that?"
"You, Mr. Newman, are most certainly not what I thought you were."
"Thanks. I think."
Lisa looked up, managing a small smile. "I do know one thing, though. This is one promise that I am definitely holding you to."
*****
Outside New York State Penitentiary
"My God," Dr. Morris murmured as he flipped through the digital photos, each one showing a different wing, room, cell of the penitentiary. The scene was always the same, showing bodies lying in puddles of blood. The entire penitentiary - prisoners and guards alike - had been wiped out by the toxin. The teams that had already arrived had set up camp around the building's perimeter, and Morris was currently in the back of an FBI surveillance van, which was almost as well equipped as the "TOYS B FUN" truck. Almost.
He set the photos down and sighed, removing his glasses briefly to rub the bridge of his nose. "Has the toxin been contained?"
The FBI agent, a narrow-faced woman in her mid-thirties, nodded. "We sealed off the building several hours ago. All of the prisoners and guards have been accounted for, with two exceptions."
Morris looked up. "Two?"
"Both of them prisoners." The agent opened a laptop, typing in a series of commands as she accessed prison records. She brought up a file, and the face that appeared on the screen belonged to a burly, bearded man with a nest of curly brown hair. "Charlie Smalls. Name's misleading as hell; the man is built like a tank. This was his second time in the pen. First time, he was convicted on assault and battery as well as two counts of robbery. Got out on good behavior, but then came right back in with larceny, three counts of battery and one count of attempted murder and manslaughter."
"Not someone I'd want to meet on a bad day."
"You wouldn't know it the way he acted. Never started a fight, never talked back, got a relatively cushy job in the kitchen as a result. The security tapes showed him and his cellmate walking right out of here when everyone else was keeling over."
The face that came with the next file was the one that Morris expected; a wispy, elderly Asian man with a serenely calm expression on his face. Only someone who knew better would guess at the menace behind that unassuming exterior. "I assume you know this man, of course. Like Smalls, he wasn't considered a major threat. Couple months into his imprisonment, he was diagnosed with emphysema and has been hooked up to an oxygen tank for several months. Same M.O. as before - the HAZMAT team that went in first discovered the broken egg at the center of the concentration."
Morris nodded. "What I don't understand is why, exactly, I was contacted about this. We know who he is this time, and we know how he does it."
"Well, your... ah, your prototype was the one who caught him in the first place." Morris glowered at the mention of Michael, and the agent retrieved a plastic evidence bag from a drawer. "And after this was found, we suspected we might need your services again."
Confused, Morris took the bag from her. Inside was a shred of paper, with Chinese characters scribbled on it. "What is this?"
"That note was found lying on Smalls' bunk," the woman replied.
"So?"
"There's only one word on the note," she continued. "Loosely translated, it means 'revenge.'"
*****
to be continued...