Chapter 12

Saturday, June 6, 1987-Night

Donovan fought to keep his eyes open as his Camry hugged the curb. Tents and makeshift shelters cluttered the outer perimeter of MacArthur Park. As homeless sought refuge in a city not fully recovered from war, L.A.'s dwindling police force did very little to keep them out of the city's parks.

Donovan started to doze. A blast from a car horn snapped him out of his fog. Something banged on the rear passenger-side door.

"Gooder!"

Recognizing Ham's voice, Donovan stopped the car.

Ham opened the back door then shoved Pico inside.

With Ham barely in the backseat, Donovan sped away, making a sharp right on Westlake. He wanted to get past the hospital and past the area where the police still searched for Pico.

"Nice driving," Ham muttered.

"You're welcome." Donovan caught a glimpse of Pico's wrinkled face in the rear-view mirror.

Pico coughed, bringing up a wealth of mucus onto the floorboard. "I need my medicine," he gasped.

You've got some nerve. Donovan hung a left, uncertain of where he was going. "What's the plan?"

"Your place," Ham answered.

"Wrong." There was no way Donovan wanted to get caught with the suspect at his house. "What about your place?" He didn't know where Ham lived

"Too far," Ham objected.

Pico hacked some more. "I h-have a lab. The cops don't know about it."

It's probably a trap, Donovan reasoned.

#

Caught in a nightmare, Steve envisioned himself running down a dim hallway with Julie not far ahead. He called out to her, but she didn't respond.

A gunshot rang out. She fell in slow motion, her small body hitting the concrete floor beneath. Steve rushed to her side, but she was dead.

Ring…Ring…Ring…

Steve woke abruptly, snatched the phone from his nightstand, hoping it wasn't a bad report on Julie.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Steve, this is Julie's sister, Gabby."

No doubt she's phoning to inquire about Julie's condition, but at 3 A.M.?

"Hey, Gabby." He leaned back against the pillows.

"How is she?"

"Still critical. The nurse said they'd phone if there were any changes."

"My mom got a flight to L.A. She is supposed to get there around six forty A.M. your time. I need you to pick her up."

Calculating a forty-minute drive to the airport and another fifty back to the hospital, Steve reluctantly agreed. "Okay."

"She needs a place to stay."

Wishing he could send her to Julie's apartment instead, he knew Connie needed to sleep on his couch as she had during last summer's visit. He wouldn't give up his own bed to try and jam his six-foot-three frame into that crowded space.

"She can stay with me," he reluctantly volunteered. "Do you have her gate number?"

He searched for a pen and pad of paper in the nightstand drawer.

#

An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of Donovan's stomach as he pulled up in front of a vacant building on L.A.'s West Side. He mulled over the wisdom of letting Julie's would-be assassin dictate where the "interrogation session" would occur. Donovan slid out of the driver's seat, following Ham and Pico to the brick building's main entrance. A sign near the door, partially obscured by overgrown vines read:…lton …orat..ies Inc.

With Ham's pistol pressed to the nape of his neck, Pico unlocked the door.

The overwhelming stench of death made Donovan gag as he followed the pair into a dark corridor. The low hum of a power generator filled the hall as Pico snapped on a switch, illuminating the area. A single desk stood in a corner, cluttered with papers. Pico led the way past it to an unlit area. The odor of rotting flesh intensified. Donovan swallowed. Pico coughed, cleared his throat, clicked on a light switch, and reached for a door handle.

"You don't know what's in there," Donovan said to Ham. "It could be a setup."

"He knows better. I'll kill him," Ham replied.

Coughing, Pico grinned, and shoved the door open.

Donovan gagged again.

Maybe that's his aim, he thought. He's probably used to the smell. He thinks if Ham and I pass out, he can kill us.

Pico turned on another light switch revealing a row of cots with people fastened to them via steel restraints.

What the hell? Donovan eyed one of the figures, a lifeless Visitor dressed in a plaid shirt and blue jeans. Maggots ate through his false human face into the oily green scales beneath.

Pico moved toward a long table cluttered with vials of yellowish-green gunk, microscopes, glass slides and an array of amber-colored prescription bottles. He dug through the mess until he found the pill bottle he wanted.

Seizing Pico by the throat, Ham said, "You'd better tell us who all these people are. What are you doing with them?"

"My scientific guinea pigs," Pico explained.

Ham shoved him back against a metal storage cabinet. Pico lost his balance and fell to the floor, gasping and coughing. "We have to report this," Donovan said.

"Not until he gives us the information we need!" Ham insisted. "You want justice for Julie, don't you?"

Pico scrambled to his feet. A devious smirk of satisfaction crossed his lips. "The little tramp is dead, eh?"

Donovan felt the blood rush to his cheeks. "Little tramp?"

"Mike?" A soft male voice reverberated from the cots.

Donovan studied the man who laid facing away from him. He made out a mass of dark blonde curly hair, went over to the victim and assessed his still-in-tact human face.

"Willie?"

Once a part of the Visitors' Fifth Column, and a Resistance member, Willie stayed behind after the second war, and married a childhood friend named Thelma. The last Donovan knew, they'd settled in nearby Toluca Lake and were expecting their first child.

"Where's Thelma… and the baby?"

"H-help me." Willie coughed, exhibiting the same rasp Pico had.

"I will, Willie," Donovan reassured him. "I'm going to get you out of here."

Seeking medical care for Willie and the others without getting the unwanted attention of law enforcement seemed difficult. Donovan turned to Ham. "We've got to get help for Willie and the others."

"It's too late for them." Coldness filled Pico's tone. "They'll all die from this sickness and there's nothing you can do about it."

Donovan thought quickly, recalling names of former Fifth Columnists trained in the medical field. "Stay here." He told Ham. "I'm going for help."

"That wasn't the plan," Ham reminded.

"We can't let Willie die."

Ham snatched up a roll of duct tape from the table and shoved Pico into a swivel, high-back chair.

"Hands behind your back, smart guy."