ears.
“Indeed, you are correct, Miss Drake,” the Colonel told her with a slight nod of his head. “Perhaps you have heard of the ‘Burning Man Syndrome’?” he asked.
Annabelle shook her head once.
“I’m not surprised, really. It’s quite rare and until recently, was so obscure as to be considered no more than a genetic anomaly. However, a very prominent politician happens to be unusually close to a particular case in North Carolina. His niece has Burning Man Syndrome, you see. She is eight.”
He paused in his speech and lifted his tea cup to his lips, taking a dainty sip that, when executed by a man of his stout stature, appeared at once farcical. “I won’t mention names, but let’s just say that this politician holds quite a lot of sway in his particular seat.” He took another sip. “Now it so happens that our Mr. Osborne is an adept business man with an eye for opportunity,” he continued as he replaced the cup in its saucer and set them both down on the coffee table. “Roughly eight years ago, he applied for a sizeable grant to study a drug for cholesterol already being used in Europe. When he applied for this grant, he was noticed and approached by the prominent politician. And he knew a prospect when he saw one.”
“Let me guess. The politician offered him more money if he promised to try to find a cure for Burning Man Syndrome,” Annabelle said. The pieces were locking themselves together in her head. Despite the muddled mess that was her current consciousness, she was beginning to understand where this was leading.
“Indeed,” the Colonel went on. “A lavish sum. The disease, known as Erythromelalgia in the medical community, is so obscure, Mr. Osborne claimed that the necessary equipment and materials would have to be concealed. MediSign would not approve of the studies. The operation would have to be somewhat… clandestine.”
“So he told him it would cost a fortune.”
“Which our politician was eager to pay. The money would come from lobbyists and special interests groups, over the course of several years. Mr. Osborne subsequently became quite wealthy.”
The Colonel picked up a sugar cookie from one of the delicate China platters and took a bite, spilling a few crumbs onto his white suit. With a furrowed brow, he brushed the crumbs away and took a napkin from the table as well, which he pressed against the corners of his mouth.
“Mr. Osborne, as any man would, had grown inclined to his supplemented income, when something happened which threw a kink in his designs.”
“Jesus.” Annabelle sat back against the couch. She’d figured it out.
“My dear, our Lord Christ has nothing whatsoever to do with this, I’m afraid.”
“Someone found a cure, didn’t they?” Annabelle asked softly, her gaze far away as she thought of Craig Brandt and Teresa Anderson. It must have been them…
“Mm,” the Colonel agreed solemnly, with a bow of his head as he replaced the napkin on the table and put down what remained of the cookie. He then placed his thumbs beneath his suspender straps and leaned back into the couch. “Well, now, a cure was the last thing Mr. Osborne wanted. With a cure would come an end to his money.”
“He had Teresa Anderson killed.” She had been working for MediSign six years ago, when she was murdered. But not in the research and development capacity. And even if she had, there was no guarantee that Osborne would have included her in his secret research project. She’d been a graphic designer. So… Maybe that was where Craig Brandt came in. They must have known each other. Maybe
“Yes, that is so,” the Colonel admitted, with a nod. “And, it would seem, a few others as well.” He pinned Annabelle with a hard stare. “Which is where you come in, Miss Drake. I’m afraid I must ask that you tell me all you know about the message your former employer left for you. It is of grave importance. Mr. Osborne does not care to have this matter brought to anyone’s attention, for obvious reasons.” He paused, seeming to consider something for a moment.
With a frown, and, as if to himself, he muttered, “I am not the only man he has hired to clear up this mess.” Then he added, speaking directly to her again, “And I intend to do the job he has paid me to do.”
Annabelle blinked.
“Don’t tell him anything, Annabelle.”
She stood, unable to stop herself. The Colonel was seated in front of her, blocking her view of Jack, and she needed to see him. It was the first time he’d spoken to her since the explosion. Their eyes met and his bored into hers. Blue sparks were flying in their depths. Blood trickled from his lip and a small cut marred his left cheek, where a bruise was blossoming beneath it. She swallowed, a sudden, hard shiver forcing her to hug herself.
The Colonel sighed. He put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up off of the couch.
At this point, most of the men who’d been laying on the ground after their struggle with Jack had awakened or come to their senses and pulled themselves up to take position along one wall. They watched the Colonel as the large man left the sofa to move toward a small half-oval table against one wall. On the polished wood table was a single wooden box. The Colonel opened the box and pulled out a whale bone pipe, which he placed between his teeth. Then he prepared the tobacco, shaking a good amount out of a small black packet and holding it in his left hand.
Annabelle watched as he rubbed it between his palms and, after pulling the pipe back out of his mouth, gently shook the tobacco into the end of the pipe. She realized she was sort of mesmerized by what he was doing and shook herself out of her stupor in time to look away as the Colonel began to tamp it down and reach for the lighter in the box.
She turned her attention back to Jack, who was watching her with nothing short of death in his eyes. Her heart slammed against her ribs. That was what he looked like. Death. And, well he should, she supposed. He was surrounded by it. His daughter, his ex-wife… And now probably Annabelle would kick the bucket too; maybe right in front of him, if he didn’t do it first.
“I wouldn’t put too terribly much stock in what Mr. Thane tells you to do right now, Miss Drake. He’s a grieving man and may not have your best interests – or his – in mind at the moment. Such is the nature of grief.”
“You killed his daughter.” Annabelle couldn’t stop herself. It came out as a growling accusation. “You don’t have anyone’s best interests in mind but your own.”
The Colonel finished lighting his pipe, took a few small puffs, and then blew the smoke out with another sigh. “It was a regrettable necessity, as I’ve said. Young Clara was a lovely girl-”
At this, Jack jerked against his bonds, but it had no effect other than to cause the hard steel to dig into his flesh. Annabelle swung around and gasped when she saw blood trickle from those wounds as well.
The Colonel said nothing for a while and then put his pipe down in its stand and went to sit on the couch again.
“I’ll ask you once more, Miss Drake. What did Max Anderson leave for you?” His tone was resigned and he seemed slightly agitated. But more focused as well.
It made Annabelle very nervous.
She opened her mouth to tell him about the lap top, but a rattling of the chains against the wall stopped her short.
“Do NOT tell him a god damned thing, Annabelle.” Jack ordered through gritted teeth.
“Very well.” The Colonel stood and gestured to two of the men against the wall. They moved toward Annabelle. Her eyes widened and she reflexively jumped up onto the couch to get away from them.
They hadn’t been expecting such a move. Perhaps outright fighting, yes, but avoidance through climbing furniture was not necessarily in their repertoire of techniques to deal with. So, it was somewhat clumsily that they dove for her as she jettisoned herself over the back of the couch to land solidly on both boots on the other side.
The two men quickly went to move around the couch, each going an opposite direction, so she simply reversed her tactic and dove forward, using strong arms to flip herself over the back of the couch in the other direction. Gymnastics classes from the time she’d been a toddler and on into her teenage years were finally coming
