“Fran? Is that you?”
Fran squinted into the light, couldn’t make out anyone behind it. But the voice didn’t seem threatening, and it was oddly familiar.
She managed to swallow the lump in her throat and said, “Who’s there?”
“Erwin Luggs. You work with my fiancee, Jessie Lee, at Merv’s Diner. I also teach Duncan.”
Before Fran answered, Erwin had his big hands on her arm and helped her up.
“Jesus, Fran, what happened?”
Fran’s eyes widened in fear when she realized Erwin was covered in blood. Erwin seemed to read her reaction.
“It’s from a deer,” he said.
Fran recovered from the shock. “My hands. Do you have a knife or something that cuts?”
“I’ve got some fingernail clippers.”
“See if they work on this plastic.”
Erwin disappeared behind her, and Fran could barely feel his touch as he manipulated her hands and arms.
And then, agony.
Her hands fell at her sides, and the blood rushing back in burned like acid. Her arms, and especially her fingers, were being stabbed with thousands of pins while simultaneously being dunked in lava.
Fran began to cry, and Erwin took his bloody jacket off to drape over her shoulders. It smelled rank, but she welcomed the warmth. Fran opened and closed her fists, trying to make it stop, and Erwin must have mistaken her pain for distress because he put his arms around her in a protective, brotherly way.
“What happened, Fran? Who did this to you?”
Fran sniffled, then went rigid, as if someone had stuck a pole up her spine.
“Duncan. We need to get to my son. Do you have a phone?”
“I’ve been trying for half an hour. No signal.”
“Let me borrow it.”
Erwin fished it out of his pocket, handed it over.
“Where’s your car?”
“Back at the station.”
Fran dialed, but her fingers hit the wrong buttons. She kept trying, getting the same results. Frustrated, she handed the phone back to Erwin.
“Dial for me.”
“There are no bars. We’re in the middle of the woods.”
“Dial!”
Fran stated her phone number, and Erwin dutifully punched in the digits. Then he held the phone up so she could hear the
“We need to get to my house, Erwin. Right now.”
“I need to get to town. Something’s happened to Josh and Sheriff Streng.”
“Josh?”
“There was a helicopter crash in the woods, and someone stole our truck. Then I saw the sheriff get attacked by some guy in a black uniform.”
Taylor wore a black uniform. And though Fran hadn’t seen his face, whoever was driving the fire truck with the mayor also wore black.
“Something’s going on,” Fran said. “Something bad. Which way is town?”
“About two miles south. This is Harris Street.”
Fran knew Harris Street. She hadn’t recognized it in the dark. Her neighborhood was less than a mile away.
“Duncan might be in trouble, Erwin. I think one of those men in the black uniforms has him.”
Erwin stepped away from her, spreading his hands. “I need to get to town, Fran. I need to—”
She grabbed Erwin by his shirt, the motion bringing fresh tears to her eyes.
“I need your help, dammit! Help me get my son!”
“These men—we need some help. We can’t do this alone …”
Fran pushed Erwin away, then began to run down the road. Away from town. Toward home.
“Fran!”
Fran ignored him, ignored the pain in her arms, ignored the throb in her injured foot that ignited every time it hit the pavement. Nothing would stop her from getting to her son. Nothing.
Mathison let out a screech of displeasure and hung on to the back of Dr. Stubin’s collar. That was how he hid. Stubin also felt like hiding. The helmet and fatigues made him feel like a child playing dress- up, and the fact he hadn’t been given a gun hammered home the point; he wasn’t a soldier.
Of course he wasn’t. Stubin was a scientist. Perhaps the premier brain specialist on the planet, a fact he would someday prove. Traipsing around through the forest playing commando wasn’t the best use of his time and skills. But he had to be here, much as he loathed it.
The helicopter had dropped him and Mathison off at the crash site. A sergeant and two privates were also deposited there—for babysitting duty—until the Green Berets arrived. His minders were humorless, no-nonsense, and though they weren’t openly hostile Stubin could feel their disdain for his presence.
The three didn’t approach the wreck of the chopper; they were probably under orders not to. But Stubin had no such orders, and he spent a few minutes examining the site, with a monkey literally on his back.
The decapitations in the cockpit were a surprise, but Stubin wasn’t shocked. Being a brain surgeon, he’d witnessed more than his fair share of gore. He looked closer, the flares and field lighting set up around the perimeter allowing him to do so without needing a flashlight.
The cuts were clean, almost surgically so. Cutting off a human head wasn’t easy, and Stubin felt strangely impressed.
Next he poked around in the back of the wreckage and found a large footlocker. It couldn’t be opened without a key, but next to it was an electronic panel with buttons and switches.
In the distance, Stubin heard another helicopter. He took it to be the Special Forces team. Stubin checked his watch, did a quick equation in his head, and estimated they’d be here within two minutes.
A moment later Mathison abandoned his hiding place on Stubin’s back and leapt out the side door, bounding off into the woods.
“Mathison! Dammit, come back!”
Stubin bounded after him, tripping over some debris on the ground. The soldiers didn’t laugh. Nor did they try to stop him when he picked himself up and headed into the woods after his monkey.
The light seemed to reduce by half every five steps, and after walking for less than a minute Stubin was surrounded by the dark. He stared at the helicopter coming in low overhead, holding on to his helmet as it passed. Stubin made an OK sign with his thumb and index, then stuck it into his mouth and blew. The shrill whistle could be heard above the din of the Huey, and Mathison came running out of the trees and stopped to stare at him.
“Don’t be afraid, Mathison. It’s just another helicopter. Come on.”
Stubin crouched down, smiling. He patted his thighs, and then a tremendous explosion shocked his ears, causing the ground to shake and momentarily turning night into day.
The fingers that locked around Streng’s throat were cutting off his air, preventing him from answering Josh. The darkness of the woods, and his inability to make a sound, meant he was going to die less than five feet away from his young friend.
Streng knelt next to the killer’s prostrate body and struggled against the grip, his efforts no more effective than when Santiago had been on top of him, mauling his kidney. The man had preternatural strength, and Streng felt like he had a noose around his neck rather than flesh and bone.
