Flee (25 page)

"I've
also turned down assignments. Maybe if given the order to blow up the world, I'd
balk."

 "Your
psych profile says you wouldn't."

I
didn't know how much I liked that. "Why not you? You developed it."

"The
President concluded you were the one to be entrusted with the phone. My psych
report was favorable, too, but then this happened." She glanced down at
the wheelchair. "After my injury, I was determined to be too much of a
risk."

"A
risk? You live in an underground bunker."

"I
think they half-expected me to go crazy with grief over my useless legs and
retaliate by blowing up the world." She gave a laugh.

A
giggle bubbled in my own throat. I'd never laid eyes on this woman until
tonight, and yet I sensed the idea was ridiculous. Fleming might be new to me,
but in all the time I'd known her as Jacob, she was as reliable as gravity.

I
lowered my gun.

"Are
we at a level where we're trusting each other?" she asked.

I
hadn't realized I'd decided to take that leap until her words hit the air. I
gave a slight nod, uncertain if my voice would function.

"Good,"
she said. Fleming took her hands off of her armrests, then lifted up the
covers. Concealed beneath were two rifle barrels, built into the frame. "I
was hoping I wouldn't have to shoot you. All I have to do is squeeze the armrests."

"Nice.
Is that standard for that chair model?"

"I
made a few minor modifications. Can I be frank? I know you don't know anything
about me, but I know a lot about you and always hoped we'd meet one day."

"Maybe
we can have a sleep over," I said. "Braid each other's hair and talk
about boys we've kissed."

"Then
we'll bake s'mores and play truth or dare." Fleming's face got serious. "But
first... where's the phone, Chandler?"

"I
hid it. But... Hammett might be able to find it." Again my throat
thickened, this time with humiliation. I'd broken and done the worst thing
anyone in my position could do. I'd revealed secrets to the enemy. My cheeks
burned and I felt a little dizzy.

"She
got to you," Fleming said. "Was it Kaufmann?"

"You
know about Kaufmann?"

"You
said it yourself. I know everything. Is he...?"

"Dead."
I said. "I told Hammett the transceiver is on the 96th floor of the
Hancock Building. But I didn't tell her where exactly."

"She
was persuasive, I take it."

I
nodded. "Waterboarding."

Fleming's
eyes went mean. "Fucking bitch. Took that right out of our training. When
we catch her, let's tie a weight to her legs and drop her in Lake Michigan."

My
spirits perked up. "So... we're a team now?"

"We've
always been a team, Chandler."

Fleming
held out her hand. I walked slowly toward her and clasped it in mine.

It
felt good.

# 
#  #

After
gathering the equipment I would need, I left Fleming at the bunker and retraced
my steps through the forest. The sky was a giant, black blanket, only a glimpse
of stars and moon between clouds. The wind had died down. I found Clancy's body
without too much difficulty. Trying not to look too closely at the ground meat
and bits of skull formerly known as her face, I grabbed her ankle and dragged
her through trees and brush, fifty meters south to a dirt road.

Sweat
slicked my back from the effort, cool in the night air. I had just managed to
slow my breathing when headlights split the night. A green Humvee stopped near
me, and the driver's window lowered. Fleming peered out from behind the wheel. "Need
some help?"

I
wasn't sure how my sister meant to help lift a body into the van without the
use of her legs, but I had no doubt she'd find a way. I waved her offer away. "I
can manage."

The
Hummer's interior flatbed was lined with plastic, no doubt Fleming's plan to
contain the blood and fluids. Using her arms to lift herself out of the driver's
seat and into a chair, she met me in the back. For a moment, she said nothing,
just stared down at the body I'd loaded inside, then I saw the shine in her
eyes.

At
least she didn't have to look at Clancy's face, since it was no longer there."Did
you know her?"

Fleming
shook her head. "Not personally."

"But
you knew you had sisters."

"Only
you. Until today." She glanced up at me. "I'm sorry I couldn't tell
you."

I
shrugged a shoulder. "I always wondered what it would be like to have a
sister. I never imagined I would have six… and that five of them would want to
kill me. That sort of weakens the sisterly bond."

Fleming
gave me a dry smile. "Well, I'm glad to finally meet you."

My
throat tightened, and all I could manage was a nod.

She
returned the gesture and pulled a plastic package from a duffle of equipment
she'd brought with. "Do you want me to do it?"

"Do
you want to?"

"No."

"Me
neither. Rock scissors paper?"

Her
eyes crinkled. "Are you serious?"

"We
could flip a coin. Got a coin?"

"I
don't. Okay, we'll go on three. One... two... three."

I
made my hand into scissors. So did Fleming. Since her hand looked exactly the
same as mine, it was a pretty surreal moment.

"Once
more," I said. "One... two... three."

This
time we both made a rock.

"This
is weirding me out," I said. "Just give me the gloves and the
scalpel."

Fleming
handed me a pair of latex gloves, and I snapped them on while she tore open the
disposable scalpel wrapper. Grasping the ghillie suit, I stretched it away from
Clancy's body and, dodging bits of stick and weeds, slit it down the middle.
Underneath the camouflage, Clancy wore combat fatigues. I patted her down.

"Got
a cell phone," I said, handing it over.

Fleming
played with the buttons. "Password protected. I can crack it back at my
place, but it'll take a few minutes."

"Later,
if we need to."

She
nodded. "Right. We already know where Hammett is."

A
few more cuts, and I exposed Clancy's belly.

"Would
you look at that?" Fleming leaned forward. "Is that what I think it
is?"

Her
skin appeared as if it was coated with peanut butter, brownish and somewhat
lumpy. Not an attractive look, but one I'd seen before.

"Liquid
body armor." I scraped some off with the flat of the blade. "Forsyth
was wearing it, too."

"I
thought this stuff only existed in theory." Fleming pinched some between
her fingers. "It's a sheer thickening paste. Semi-solid now, but watch."
She flicked her fingernail at it, and it made a clicking sound as the paste
became rock hard. "Add energy, it becomes a solid. I also feel some iron
filings in the mixture, so it could be magnetorheological as well. Amazing."

"Yeah.
Well, she should have smeared some on her face."

Fleming
glanced at me, and we shared a small laugh, one that was surprisingly
comfortable. Then I turned my attention back to the task at hand. Once I'd
finished scraping off the body armor, I positioned the blade above Clancy's
belly button. I tried not to think about how her belly looked like mine, and
how I also had a tracker in me, and then I made my first cut.

Dead
hearts no longer pumped blood, and so dead bodies didn't exactly bleed. Instead
they oozed. Blood reddened my fingers and seeped out onto the plastic as I widened
the incision, past the layers of skin and fat and muscle, until her insides
were exposed.

"Check
the duodenum," Fleming said. "I see a scar there. And try not to nick
the intestines. This smell is bad enough."

"You
can jump in at any time," I said, breathing through my mouth.

The
odor of blood and death and digestive tract nearly overwhelming. I palpated the
tissue, finally feeling a very small but hard nub beneath the slick scar tissue.
I sliced carefully and finally freed the tracking device.

The
thing was a small, round chip of clear plastic, the size of a penny, but
several times as thick. I brushed off some blood and saw the circuit panel
inside. Fleming pried it from my fingers, even though she wasn't wearing
gloves.

"The
weight is lopsided. I think it has a rotor in it, like a self-winding watch.
That keeps the battery charged."

"Fascinating,"
I said, pulling the ghillie suit closed. Then I wiped my hands with some paper
towels and fished in the duffle for what I needed next.

I
chose a hand clipper, the kind used to prune rose bushes. A branch nipper would
have been easier, with its extra leverage, but for all the tools Fleming had in
her bunker, she was woefully short on garden implements.

Ironic,
since she lived in the middle of a forest.

It
didn't take long for me to snip off the ends of Clancy's fingers and plop them
into a jar filled with hydrochloric acid. Then I cleaned up the mess and
encased my dead sister in a body bag.

I
was grateful that part was done, but the first step in our plan was far from
over.

"Were
you able to get the paperwork?"

"I
have everything we'll need." Fleming handed me a pile of clothing, and then
climbed back behind the wheel. Instead of using a foot pedal for brake and gas,
she maneuvered the vehicle with hand controls, and soon we were cruising down
the lonely road.

Time
for me to get dressed.

By
the time we reached the city, rush hour was long since over and traffic was
heavy but flowing well. We made it into the city in good time. Fleming drove
like she was pissed off at the entire world, and maybe she was. But being in a
Humvee, with a horn stolen straight off a freight train, motorists gave her a
wide berth. A good thing too, because I could easily have pictured her driving
over some of the slower, smaller cars in her way.

Fleming
pulled into the hospital's rear parking lot and up to the double doors. After
offering to help my sister into her wheelchair—which apparently was akin to spitting
in her face—we  headed toward the morgue entrance. This chair was manual, not
electric, and had angled wheels and a lower profile.

"Does
this model also have the guns in the armrests?" I asked.

"Among
other modifications. I don't like being unarmed."

 We
both signed in with the attendant, a sleepy-eyed doughboy with greasy hair. The
morgue was off limits to the public, but cops, doctors, and morticians were
granted entrance. Our fake credentials said we were doctors, and we were
dressed appropriately in white lab coats.

I
kept my head down so the attendant didn't notice we were twins, but it didn't
matter because his eyes were glued to a television showing, of all things, an
Animal Planet special on otters.

I
let Fleming deal with the paper work—a bogus autopsy order—while I used one of
the morgue's stainless steel gurneys to fetch Clancy and wheel her inside. When
I returned, Fleming was waiting for me at the entrance to the cooler. She went
in first, and I followed.

There
are not many smells worse than the stench of the morgue. Underneath the bleach
and antiseptic was a sickly-sweet odor akin to rotting carnations. It coated
the insides of my nostrils and clung to my skin, and I knew from experience it
would stick with me long after I had left the building.

In
the massive walk-in cooler, the dead were stacked four high on wire racks, many
of them leaking fluids onto the sticky floor. They were naked, bluish-colored
regardless of race, and many were still stuck in the odd positions they'd died
in; on their sides, arms and legs akimbo, curled up as if in sleep. Cook County
Morgue was one of the biggest in the nation, and it was operating at full
capacity, which meant over three hundred bodies. We were the only two live ones
in the place.

Fleming
picked up a stray bottle of bleach and began spritzing down Clancy's body bag,
destroying our prints. I ducked into the autopsy room—which was devoid of any
medical examiners as Jack Daniels had promised—and found two of my sisters on
the cutting tables. Follett, whom I'd putted the grenade at, was missing a good
portion of her legs. The other, whose head wound indicated she was Ludlam from
Stretchers
,
already had the standard Y incision on her chest. Luckily, she hadn't been
opened up yet. I swallowed the bad taste in my mouth and took the hand clippers
out of my lab coat.

"Forsyth
is missing," I called over my shoulder to Fleming, "so check the
racks. She'll have on liquid body armor."

"I'm
on it. You know, this may sound stupid, but it feels good to be in the field
again. Nice to get out of the bunker and stretch my legs. Figuratively
speaking."

I
might have enjoyed the small talk with my sister more if I hadn't been snipping
off my other sister's fingertips. We needed to get rid of all fingerprint
evidence, or both Fleming and I were in deep shit.