Not his Mary, James T. 'Skip' Bannister had replied in a calm and unlistening policeman. Sir, they all say that, and in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases-no, you know, it 's actually higher than that-that's how it turns out, and I'm sorry but we don't have the manpower to investigate all of these cases. Sorry, but that's just how this sort of thing works. So, why not just go home and wait for the phone to ring?
That he'd done, and driven all the way back to Gary in a rage that grew out of his panic, arriving, finally, to find six messages on his answering machine, and he'd run through them quickly, hoping to-but not finding one from his missing daughter.
Like most Americans, James Thomas Bannister owned a personal computer, and while he'd bought it on a whim and not really used it all that much, this day, like every other, he turned it on and logged onto the Net to check his e-mail. And finally, this morning, he saw a letter in the IN box from his daughter. He moved his mouse, clicking on the letter, which sprang into life on his RGB monitor and
–now he was truly panicked.
She didn't know where she was? Medical experiments? Most frightening of all, the letter was disjointed and poorly written. Mary had always gotten good marks in school. Her handwriting was always neat and easy to read. Her letters had been like reading stories in the morning paper, loving, of course, and clear, concise, easy to read. This could have been written by a three-year-old, Skip Bannister thought. Not even typed neatly, and his daughter knew how to type well-she'd gotten an 'A' in that class.
What to do now? His little girl was missing… And now his gut told him that his daughter was in danger. His stomach compressed into a knot just below his sternum. His heart speeded up. His face broke out in beads of sweat. He closed his eyes, thinking as hard as he could. Then he picked up his phone book. On the first page were the emergency numbers, from which he selected one and dialed it.
'FBI,' the female voice said. 'How can I help you?'
CHAPTER 21
The last of the winos had outlasted all predictions, but it lead only prolonged the inevitable. This one was named Henry, a black man of forty-six years who only appeared to be twenty years older. A veteran, he'd told everyone who'd listen, and a man with a considerable thirst, which had not, miraculously, done a great deal of liver damage. And his immune system had done a valiant job of fighting off Shiva. He was probably from the deep part of the gene pool, Dr. Killgore thought, for what little good it had clone him. It would have been useful to take a history from him, to find out how long his parents had lived, but lie was too far gone by the time they'd realized it. But now, the printout of his blood work said, he was surely doomed. I l is liver had finally succumbed to the Shiva strands, and his blood chemistry was off the chart in every category that mattered. In a way, it was too bad. The doctor still living in Killgore somehow wanted patients to survive. Maybe it was sportsmanship, he thought, heading down to the patient's room. 'How are we doing, Henry?' the doctor asked.
'Shitty, Doc, just shitty. Feels like my belly is coming a hart inside out.'
'You can feel it?' Killgore asked. That was a surprise. 1 I e was getting nearly twelve milligrams of morphine a day now-a lethal dose for a healthy man, but the really sick ones could somehow take a lot more of the drug.
'Some,' Henry replied, grimacing.
'Well, let me fix that for you, okay?' The physician extracted a 50cc needle from his pocket. along with a vial of Dilaudid. Two to four milligrams was a strong dose for a normal person. He decided to go to forty, just to be sure. Henry had suffered enough. He filled the syringe, flicked the plastic body with a fingernail to take care of the little air bubble, then inserted it in the IV line. and pushed the plunger down quickly
'All,' Henry had time to say as the dazzling rush hit him. And just that fast, his face went still, eyes wide open, pupils dilated in the last pleasure he would ever know. Ten seconds later, Killgore touched the right carotid artery. There was nothing happening there, and Henry's breathing had stopped at once. Just to be completely sure, Killgore took his stethoscope from his pocket and touched it to Henry's chest. Sure enough, the heart had stopped.
'Nice Fight, partner,' the doctor told the body. Then he unhooked the IV line, switched off the electronic drug monitor system, and tossed the sheet over the face. So, that was the end of the winos. Most of them had checked out early, except for Henry. The bastard was a fighter to the end, defying all predictions. Killgore wondered if they might have tried one of the vaccines on him- 'B' would almost certainly have saved him, but then they'd just have a healthy wino on their hands, and the Project wasn't aimed at saving that sort of person. What use was he to anyone, really? Except maybe a liquor-store owner. Killgore left the room, waving to an orderly as he did so. In fifteen minutes, Henry would be ashes floating in the air, his chemicals useful to some grass and trees as fertilizer when they fell back to earth, which was about as much a contribution as a person like that could hope to make.
Then it was time to see Mary, F4, in her room.
'How are you doing?' he asked.
'Fine,' she replied sleepily. Whatever discomfort she ought to be feeling was well submerged in the morphine drip.
'You took a little walk last night?' Killgore asked, checking her pulse. It was 92, strong and regular still. Well, she wasn't really into serious symptoms yet, though she'd never last as long as Henry had.
'Wanted to tell Daddy that I was okay,' she explained.
'Think he's worried?'
'I haven't talked to him since I got here, and, I thought…' She dozed off.
'Yeah, sure, you thought,' Dr. Killgore said to the unconscious form, 'and we'll make sure that doesn't happen again.' He changed the programming on the IV monitor, increasing the morphine drip by 50 percent. That should keep her in the bed.
Ten minutes later he was outside, walking north to where… there it was, and he saw Ben Farmer's pickup truck parked in the usual place. The inside of the building smelled of birds, as well it might, though it looked more like a horse barn. Every door was barred too closely for an arm to reach in-or for a bird to get out. He walked down the row of doors until he found Farmer in with one of his favorites.
'Working overtime?' Killgore asked.
'A little,' the security man agreed. Come on, Festus,' he said next. The barn owl flapped its wings angrily then lifted off for the six-foot trip to Farmer's gloved arm. 'I think you're all fixed, my friend.'
'Doesn't look very friendly,' the physician observed.
'Owls are hard to work with sometimes, and Festus has a mean side,' the former Marine told him, walking the owl back to its perch and leaving him there. Then he slipped out of the door. 'Not the smartest raptors, owls. Hard as hell to train. Not even going to try with him.'
'Just release him?'
'Yeah. End of the week, I think.' Farmer nodded. 'It's been two months, but his wing's all healed now. I 'spect he's ready to go back out and find hisself a barn full o' mice to eat.'
'Was that the one hit by the car?'
'No, that's Niccolo, the great horned owl. No, Festus, I think he probably flew into a power line. Wasn't looking the right way, I guess. Both his eyes seem to work just fine. But birds screw up, too, just like people. Anyway, I fixed his broke wing - did a good job of it, if I do say so myself.' Farmer allowed himself a satisfied smile. 'But of Festus ain't very grateful about it.'
'Ben, you ought to be a doctor, you're so good at this. Were you a medic in the Marines?'
'Just a grunt. Marines get their medics from the Navy, Doc.' Farmer took off his thick leather gauntlet and flexed his fingers before putting it back on. 'You here about Mary?'
'What happened?'
'Truth? I was off taking a leak, sat back down reading my magazine, and when I looked up, she wasn't there. I figure she was loose for, oh, ten minutes before I put the call out. I screwed up, Doc, and that's a fact,' he admitted.
