Authors: Kenneth G. Bennett
He’d endured the worst days of his life and yearned for things to get back to normal. He wanted to resume work. Step back into his familiar routine. Heal.
In fact, nothing would ever be the same again.
BECK ACCOMPANIED HEINTZEL
to her office and queried her as they walked. “Think Stanton and his girlfriend bought your story? She’s a nurse, you know.”
Heintzel shrugged. “They bought it, yes. I think so.”
“The scans you gave them—“
“Altered, to appear normal, along with his records. There’s nothing in there about his true condition.”
“What about the implant?” Beck asked.
Heintzel led him into her office, closed the door, and with a few taps on her keyboard called Stanton’s scans onto her monitor. Beck peered at the screen. Saw the tiny cluster of electrodes Heintzel had positioned against Stanton’s temporal lobe.
“Lucky for us,” said Heintzel, “Mr. Stanton suffered an assortment of deep cuts and contusions when he fell off the ferry. It wasn’t difficult to widen one of the cuts and use it as an entry point for installing the device. We should be able to monitor his thoughts until he dies. Assuming there’s a receiver nearby.”
“Done,” said Beck. “Hidden in Stanton’s rental house this morning. Ring tested it. It works.” He stared at the multi-colored scans spinning slowly on screen. “How long’s he got?”
“If he follows the pattern, he’ll be feeling pretty good for the next five to seven days. Almost back to normal. Then he’ll decline. Fast. I’d give him a week, maybe a bit more.”
“What if they do an autopsy after he kicks it? Find the chip?”
“The device is bioreactive,” Heintzel replied. “It’ll dissolve once cellular processes cease.”
“When can we see Stanton’s thought captures?” Beck asked. He knew it would be a while. Brain activity decoding—translating neural signals into sounds, words, and images—required a breathtaking amount of processing power. Even the supercomputer on board
Marauder
needed hours to process one series of e-scans.
“Eight to ten hours,” Heintzel replied. “Though Dr. Ring can give you a more precise answer.”
Beck nodded, satisfied.
Heintzel said, “There’s something else you need to be aware of. Something that might affect Stanton’s survival time.” She looked at Beck. “The mass behind his visual cortex is growing.”
Beck arched an eyebrow. “Growing?”
“I’ve sent pictures to Phelps and Ring, but there’s no doubt about it. We measured a change during his stay here. This wasn’t the case with any of the others.”
“What would growth like that mean?”
“I don’t know. That’s Dr. Phelps’s area of expertise. Neurophysiology. Molecular change within brain structures.” She hesitated.
“What?” said Beck. The look on Heintzel’s face worried him.
The doctor sighed and removed her glasses. Twirled them in one hand. She seemed suddenly reluctant to speak.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Dr. Phelps.”
“What about him?”
She turned to her monitor and tapped the color scans of the strange mass wedged between the caudate nucleus and the occipital lobe. “He’s making good progress analyzing the anomaly.”
“So?”
Heintzel looked at Beck. Sighed. “So he seems to think that we brought Mr. Stanton onto the
Mercy
to help him. To alert him to the dangers he’s facing. He’s concerned about Stanton’s well-being.”
Beck frowned. “Phelps needs to focus on his job. He’s making a truckload of money.”
“He’s asking questions,” said Heintzel. “Awkward questions: ‘How did we treat Stanton’s condition? What did we tell him? What are we doing to alert other possible victims?’ Phelps e-mails me these things and I don’t know how to respond.” She looked at Beck. “If he finds out the truth…If he finds out—“
Beck shook his head. “Don’t worry. He won’t.”
THE EREBUS HELICOPTER
carried Joe and Ella to San Diego International Airport, where it landed in an out-of-the way corner of the vast facility, next to a sleek Gulfstream G5 jet. The ground crew bustled around the tarmac, refueling and loading gear into the jet’s open cargo bay.
Ella saw no sign of press. Only Erebus employees.
In Bremerton
, she thought.
Reporters will be there, for sure.
But when the jet touched down in Bremerton, it was the same story. No press. Not on the tarmac. Not in the little terminal. Ella felt relieved, but also baffled.
Why would Beck help Joe
, she wondered,
for no reward or gain?
She still didn’t buy Gliss’s explanation, but she couldn’t come up with a better one.
Joe and Ella said good-bye to the Erebus crew and caught a taxi to Joe’s house, fifteen minutes away.
The cab turned down Joe’s quiet, treelined street a little after seven. It was a warm, summer evening and people were outside. Dan Gerhard was mowing his lawn. Marella Martinez was washing her beater Volvo. Kids were skateboarding and jetting around on bikes.
Ella saw her Jetta waiting in Joe’s driveway and made a mental note to buy flowers and a bottle of wine for her older sister, Jill.
Make that a case of wine
, she thought.
Jill had kindly retrieved the Jetta from Anacortes after the ferry mishap—a task that had caused her to miss half a day at the law firm where she worked.
The cab eased into the cul-de-sac fronting Joe’s house and the neighbors stopped what they were doing to watch.
Joe gave the driver his credit card and waited for a receipt.
Jamala Gordon, three houses down—watched from her yard, arms folded. “Hi, Jamala,” Joe, called, smiling. “Nice evening, huh?”
Jamala, normally talkative, just stared, then retreated to her porch.
Joe and Ella carried their things into the house. Two minutes later the doorbell rang and Ella answered. It was Janet Blevin, an elderly next-door neighbor and animal lover. She was holding a small pet carrier containing Joe’s cat, Figaro.
“Hi, Janet. Hi, Figaro,” said Ella, relieving Janet of the pet carrier and letting Figaro out on the hardwood floor. “Thank you so much for watching him. For the extra days, too.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” said Janet, peering around none too subtly. “Figaro is a sweetie.”
Janet set a paper bag full of bills and catalogs on the entry table. “Here’s Joe’s mail,” she said, stepping further into the house.
Looking for Joe
, Ella realized.
Nosy old thing.
Joe was unpacking in the bedroom and Ella hoped he’d stay there. No sense revving up the neighborhood gossip machine any more than it already was.
Joe didn’t stay in the bedroom.
“Hi, Janet,” he said, emerging from the hallway. Figaro trotted to his side, rubbed against his leg, and began purring. “I meant to bring you something from the San Juans, but we—I—ran into a little trouble.”
“Oh, I heard,” said Janet, ogling Joe’s bruised and bandaged face with morbid fascination. “I saw you on the news. And YouTube. Everyone did, I think.”
Wonderful
, thought Ella.
Perfect.
Janet retreated a step, eyes fixed on Joe. “Are you…okay?”
Joe smiled. “Much better, thanks, Janet. Just want to get back to work and my routine.”
Janet said nothing further. Just stared at Joe’s battered, multihued face until the silence grew awkward.
“Well, thanks again,” Ella said sharply, herding the old woman toward the door. “Joe has to unpack. And by the way—the doctors think he ate something poisonous that caused all this stuff. Not sure what you’ve heard. But that’s what happened.”
“She’s old,” Joe said gently, after Ella shut the door.
“She’s rude,” countered Ella. “I think she would’ve stared at your face all night if I let her.”
Joe poured his mail onto the table, tossed the first few junk catalogs aside and gazed half-heartedly at the remaining heap. The house felt dark and musty, so Ella opened windows and turned on lights.
She moved methodically, lost in her thoughts. Joe scanned his mail, lost in his thoughts. The house fell silent. It was not the normal vibe for Joe Stanton and Ella Tollefson. Not at all.
Joe and Ella were young and in love. They couldn’t stand being apart, and when they were together it was usually nonstop talking and laughing and touching and messing around.
“I have to go,” Ella said abruptly. “Check my apartment and stuff.”
Joe held her gaze a moment. Her expression worried him. “Okay,” he said. “I’m just gonna…unpack.”
Ella turned, but instead of leaving, marched into the small kitchen and began opening cupboards. “We should’ve had the cab stop somewhere,” she said, sounding frustrated. “It’s after seven! What are you gonna have for dinner?”
“I’ve got tons of stuff,” Joe replied, following her.
“Like what? Cereal and stale milk?” She threw open a drawer. Then another.
“I
like
cereal and stale milk,” he said. He reached for her gently. “Ella—”
Her eyes clouded and she looked to Joe suddenly vulnerable. Fragile.
“Baby—”
She fell into his arms, and the tears came.
“It’s okay,” he said, holding her, letting her cry. “It’s okay.”
She cried. He held her close.
“I didn’t know you hated cereal
that
much,” he said.
She laughed, then cried some more.
Joe led her into the den, and they sat together on the sofa. Joe held her hand. He said, “I got a clean bill of health, remember? I’m gonna be fine.”
“I know.”
“So what is it? The stress of the last few days? School? I know you missed classes.”
Ella shook her head. “School’s fine. I talked to my professors.”
“So—”
Ella pulled away a little, shrugged. “Just stuff. We can talk about it later.”
Joe withdrew slowly, misunderstanding. His expression hardened, and after a long silence he said softly, “You’re leaving. I don’t blame you. Considering what’s happened, I mean—”
Ella abruptly stopped crying and gently lifted Joe’s downcast face to hers. “Baby—let’s get something straight, okay? I am
not
leaving you. Not now. Not ever…I don’t care how weird you are.”
They both laughed.
“I love you,” she said. “I can’t help it. You can’t get rid of me.”
Joe smiled, relieved. “Well, I mean, I can handle anything besides that.”
Ella shook her head. “I’m not so sure. People called while you were recovering on the
Mercy
.”
“Who? You mean with the church?”
“No. Joe, listen. The ferry system—they want you to pay for the search operation. They spent hours looking for you. Brought in other boats. They want you to pay.
“Their attorney—I talked to her. She says they’ll sue to recoup their money if they have to. My sister thinks you could countersue—claim negligence on the ferry system’s part. But you’ll have to hire a lawyer for that, obviously.”
Joe nodded slowly. “I mean, how much do they want me to pay?”
“Seventy, maybe eighty thousand dollars.”
Joe laughed. “Should’ve told them the real reason I fell off the boat.”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “I got beat up. Pepper-sprayed.
Before
I fell off the ferry. It was an ambush, basically.”
Ella’s face paled. “Beat up?”
“Spinell’s son,” said Joe. “And, I don’t know—his wife or sister or someone. She stopped me as I was walking back to you. Said the door on her truck was stuck. Asked if I could help get it open. I followed her down to the car deck and…”—he shook his head, embarrassed—“they jumped me.”
“But…why didn’t you say something? Tell the paramedics? The police?”
Joe sighed. “When I woke up on the beach, I was whacked out, just…out of it. I couldn’t think straight. The helicopter came, I blacked out again. I don’t know, but by the time I
really
regained my senses, on the ship, I just decided to let it go.”
“How do you know it was Spinell’s son?”
“He told me himself…in so many words. And there’s a strong family resemblance.”
Ella looked baffled. “You told everybody that your cuts and bruises came from your fall—from hitting the side of the boat.”
Joe shrugged. “I wasn’t mad at Spinell’s son. I wanted to just get past the whole thing. I’m not mad now.”
“Yeah?” Ella’s expression hardened. “Well
I’m
mad. You almost died, Joe. He beat you. Threw you into forty-degree water in the middle of—”
“Whoa,” Joe shook his head. “They didn’t throw me off. I didn’t say that. He beat me up. Pretty bad—but they left me on the deck. After they went away, I got up and stumbled around. I was dizzy. Couldn’t see. Then I fell off.” He decided not to mention the voice.
“Still,” said Ella. “They’re the reason you fell. If they hadn’t beaten you up…You have to tell the police about this.”
Joe said, “Spinell wanted to press charges against me, but you said he dropped those.”
Ella laughed. “Yeah. Now I know why. His son almost killed you. Maybe he figured that was enough revenge.”
“So let’s drop it.”
Ella took Joe’s hands in hers and looked into his eyes. “Joe, listen. I love how compassionate and kind you are. How forgiving. It’s one of the reasons I love you and it’s one of the traits that makes you so great at what you do. You really think about other people and put yourself in other people’s shoes. But this guy—Spinell Junior, whatever his name is—must be a total thug to do what he did. I don’t care if he was pissed. That’s not how you take out your anger. If you explain what happened, the ferry system might go after Junior instead of you.”
“Baby—”
“Joe—the ferry bill isn’t even your only problem. Remember the detective? Palmer?”
“Sure.”
“He knows Heintzel thinks the hallucination was caused by something you ate. But he said the San Juan County prosecutor is considering filing charges against you anyway.”
“For what?”
“Disorderly conduct. Misdemeanor, reckless…something. I had to sign an affidavit saying you’d come back to Friday Harbor to plead.”