Dark Angel: Skin Game (20 page)

"You mean, he retired at age twenty-seven? Disability for what?"

"Good questions, and maybe we should ask the agent himself." Logan swung back around and tapped the keys some more.

A picture popped up on the screen. The man was young, slender, good-looking in a nondescript way, with dark hair swept straight back and brown eyes that made him look wiser than his years.

"Sage Thompson," Logan said by way of introduction. "Hankins' partner."

"It would seem," Max said, "a reasonable assumption that his leaving the NSA had something to do with his partner's death."

"Maybe he had a full-bore mental breakdown over his partner being murdered and skinned... maybe this all went down when the two were out in the field together."

"Meaning Thompson knows something about that first murder."

"Again—a reasonable assumption."

"Any idea where we can find him?"

"He's in the phone book," Logan said.

Max smirked darkly. "That's encouraging. With White involved, the guy could be on the bottom of Puget Sound."

"I called his house and got no answer. Then I got Asha to do a drive-by, and she said the place was vacant... and there's a For Sale sign in the yard."

Asha Barlow, a friend of Logan's, ran with the revolutionary S1W, an underground cell almost as wrapped up in saving the world as Eyes Only. Despite her initial jealousy of Asha, Max had learned to trust the woman and knew that if Asha said Thompson was a ghost, a ghost he was.

"You'll find him for me, Logan? You know, my hands are tied here. I promised Clemente I'd stay put."

"I'm looking," he assured her. "I'll do what I can."

"Track him down, get whatever you can—using Asha's a good idea, with me on the sidelines. We're under enough pressure here without Ames White making a transgenic poster child out of a serial killer."

"What if that serial killer really is a transgenic?" Logan asked.

"Then we're going to need all the media magic Eyes Only can muster."

Her cell phone rang again.

"You're a popular girl," Logan said.

"I shouldn'ta listed myself with that dating agency." After the second ring, she punched the Send button. "Go for Max."

Dix's voice blurted, "The cop's back at the fence! You better get up here. He doesn't look happy."

Shaking her head, she said, "On my way."

"What?" Logan asked.

"Clemente's dropped by—seen the news lately?"

Logan nodded. "I figured that was just typical Ames White disinformation."

"I hope to God it is—Alec and Joshua went over the fence this morning."

"Oh hell...."

Max let out a sigh that started at her toes. "No one knows why. And we've heard nothing from them. Can you beat that, Logan? I ask this band of outcasts for one thing—stay put till this is negotiated—and two of my closest confederates ignore my request."

Pushing away from the computer, Logan said, "Leadership is getting someone to do what they don't want to do—to achieve what they want to achieve."

"Who said that?"

"Tom Landry."

Max just looked at him.

"Football coach—Dallas Cowboys."

"If you say so. But by that yardstick, I failed."

"No—they probably failed you. But you also haven't heard their side of it yet. And you owe them that much, right?"

She said nothing at first, but as his eyes unrelentingly bore in on her, she finally said,

"Right.... How do you stay so positive?"

"Because the alternative is despair. And when that happens—the Ames Whites of the world win."

Max looked at him long and hard, knowing that her love for this man had blossomed from an admiration that somehow still grew.

"Thanks," she said. "I needed that.... Now I've really gotta go."

She didn't want to leave Logan's side, but she turned away and headed for the tunnel back to Terminal City.

Clemente was waiting at the main gate when she got there and, what a shock! He looked pissed off...

... not that she could really blame him, after the day's fiascoes.

"You took your sweet time," he said, his voice edgy and cold.

Max ran a hand over her face. "Ramon, I'd love to tell you that you're my only problem right now ... but you're not."

He sucked in a breath, then nodded. "All right—I can accept that."

"What can I do for you?"

"Come with me for a while," he said.

She smirked. "Yeah—right."

Clemente's eyes locked with hers. "Trust is a two-way street, Max ... and right now yours is looking like a dead end."

"Well, that's cute, Ramon, but—"

"I need to talk to you in a secure location. Can you appreciate that?"

"Yes."

"Should I trust you?"

"Yes."

"Then are you willing to come with me, on the assurance that I'll allow you to return to Terminal City?"

"Yes," she said, thinking that Clemente was living up to that Tom Landry definition of leadership damn well.

Turning toward one of the security cameras, Max made several hand motions.

"What was that about?" Clemente asked.

"Just telling the gang what to do if I don't come back."

The transgenic sentries, at her bidding, opened the gate for her.

Clemente led Max through the blockade of squad cars, around the officers who glared at her, unmasked hatred in their eyes, and past the National Guard trucks, the troops scattered along the perimeter. Moments later she was following the detective into a seven-story office building.

The first floor had an atrium lobby with a bank of three elevators to the left and, at the right, the restaurant that was their destination. Sitting in a booth next to a huge plate-glass window, Max could see the Terminal City main gate and the large military presence on this side of it.

She wondered if part of the exercise was for her to see just what she and her people were up against.

The restaurant itself was more like a lunch counter with a dozen booths lined around two outside walls. Back in the pre-Pulse days the place probably did great breakfast business as all the medtech people stopped in on their way to work. The back wall of the counter area was mostly a huge mirror surrounded by shelves that held coffee cups, water glasses, malt glasses, and sundae bowls. The red Formica counter held stainless steel napkin holders and sat in front of silver stools with red tops.

It felt strange—comforting and a little surreal—to be out in the real world again.

The booths were still comfy, the tan Naugahyde worn but clean. Usually open until eight or nine, the place had been commandeered—Clemente explained—as the officers' mess during the siege. At the moment, other than one anxious-looking middle-age waitress, the place seemed vacant.

Arriving with coffee, the waitress poured two cups, set one in front of each of them, then set the pot on the table too.

When the waitress left quickly—too quickly—Max's smile disappeared. "Secure location, huh?" she said, her voice cold. "Get 'em out."

"What?" Clemente seemed confused.

"You get them out or I'll do it for you."

"What are you—"

"Cut the crap, Ramon. Show of trust? You've got three SWAT guys playing hide-and-seek behind the counter. I can see them in the damn mirror."

Reluctantly, he turned and saw what she meant. "All right—you heard her. Up and out."

The three SWAT team members stood, sweat beading their faces. Max wondered how long they'd been crammed down back there. For the first time today, she wanted to smile; but didn't. The SWAT officers looked as irritated as they did embarrassed, and she saw no reason to antagonize them further.

"The two in the men's room, too."

The detective's eyes were wide with amazement. "How did you—"

"I didn't," she said. "You just told me."

He sat back in the booth, rubbed a hand over his face and let an exhausted smile leak out. "Johnson, Carlesimo," he yelled, not bothering with the walkie. "Come on out!"

Two more SWAT officers emerged from the men's room, weapons in their hands, confusion on their faces.

Clemente thumbed toward the door. "Go ahead—it's okay. Everybody out."

The entire SWAT contingent trooped out, the waitress, too.

"How the hell did you figure that?" the detective asked, his face betraying no trace of embarrassment at being caught with his pants around his ankles.

"With only three behind the counter, you'd want backup. The only place out of sight was the bathrooms. You wouldn't want me stumbling into your guys in the Women's, so that meant they had to be in the Men's."

"And you knew there'd be two because ... ?"

"SWAT guys can't pee by themselves. You breed it into them. They're like pigeons—

they mate for life."

Clemente nodded. He seemed chagrined. "Neither one of us has been very trustworthy, have we?"

"I've at least tried. I didn't hide shooters behind a lunch counter. And that waitress is a policewoman, right?"

His face turned stony. "Maybe—but you just helped two transgenics leave Terminal City."

"Not true."

"What about that elementary school? I know you're monitoring the news—you saw it."

"I told you before, Ramon, not all the transgenies in this city are inside our—"

He cut her off. "But these two were. I got detailed descriptions from the school staff.

These two I saw with you that first night, saw them myself."

"You could be wrong," she tried feebly.

"I might have believed that if we hadn't taken them into custody earlier."

Detective Clemente tossed two photos on the table in front of her, and Max felt her stomach do a back flip—and land badly.

She looked down at the pictures of Joshua and Alec—they were on a floor, their eyes closed, their faces peaceful.

Trying not to betray the emotion she felt, she asked, "Are they dead?"

Shaking his head, the detective said, "No—but they had a hell of a close call."

"What happened to them?"

"They were attacked by someone who almost electrocuted them."

"What?"

"With stun rods."

"Where did this happen? When?"

"An apartment house of squatters in Queen Anne—over on Crockett."

Max tried to make sense of it, but couldn't add anything up. "What were they doing there?"

Clemente studied her. "You're asking me?"

"Yes I'm asking you!"

"You really don't know?"

"They were gone for hours before I even found out they were on the outside."

"Are you saying they'd already gone over the fence when you told your people to stay put?"

She drew a deep breath, let it out. "I wish I could tell you that.... No. They knew about my order."

Max stopped short of telling the cop that these were two of her closest comrades.

"Shit," Clemente was saying. "I was hoping you'd know something."

She glanced around. "Is this location really secure?"

""Yes. Swept it for bugs this morning. And there's been no sign of White or his people."

"Ramon—why were you hoping I would know something? You're the one on the outside. What's your problem?"

The detective reached beside him, into a briefcase, and pulled out more pictures, arraying them around the table.

Max looked them over as he spoke. "The stun rod you see in these photos ..."

"Yeah?"

"It belongs to one of the murdered officers who was skinned."

Max rocked back in the booth as if she'd been punched.

Clemente bore down on her. "Any idea why they went to the school?"

She shook her head. "None. I'm telling you, I don't even know why they left Terminal City." She sat forward, almost pleading. "Could you take me to them? Could I see them?"

"No. Anyway, they're still unconscious. They're in a hospital—safe ... and they're going to be all right."

"You have to let me look into this," Max pleaded.

"No way. No way! If you can help us from inside, fine. Otherwise this is a police matter and we'll take care of it."

"My guys did not kill those officers."

Clemente put a hand out and touched hers—a shockingly intimate move meant to reassure her. Which it did.

"I know that," Clemente said. "In fact, my guess is, somehow they either found... or stumbled into the killer. Whoever it is, he's the dangerous one. I mean, Max—this guy got the drop on... and nearly killed... two trans-genics."

"Which is why you should let me hit the streets and find out what is up with this!"

"No—Max, the bottom line here is, this is a police matter. You have to go back inside and be the leader those people need right now."

She sighed. "Yeah.... Yeah, I know. People I trust keep telling me that."

"And I'm one of them?"

"You're one."

"Then I hope you'll take this the right when I say ... I've got more bad news to share with you."

Max again locked eyes with him, wondering if she could take any more.

"Someone," Clemente said, "has pulled some strings."

"What now?"

"A clock has started ticking. We've got till Friday. The feds say, if we locals can't settle this within a week, they'll come in and take over."

"Ames White," Max said.

Nodding, Clemente said, "My best guess, too. But who pulled the strings doesn't matter—all that matters is, if this standoff isn't settled by Friday, the Army will move in on Terminal City—tanks'U come rolling right through those fences."

Max said nothing.

"So how do we settle this thing, you and I?" Clemente asked.

"We find that killer."

"I'll find him—but I see your point. As long as the media is filled with a transgenic Jack the Ripper, negotiating with Terminal City gets lost in the alarmist shuffle."

"Well put. Where are you with the investigation?"

With a shrug, Clemente said, "We've searched the apartment where your friends were found. It's been cleared out. It's a squatter's flat, like I said, so we have no name, and the neighbors didn't ever remember seeing the guy. We got some skin cells from the shower drain, could be the killer, could be skin from one of the victims. We won't know for a while."