Generation 18: The Spook Squad 2 (21 page)

“Run a search on the image. I want the name and address of every company that uses it.”

“Will do.”

“Thanks. And can you get me the personnel file for Michael Sanders?”

The file appeared onscreen almost instantly. She raised her eyebrows. “That was fast, Iz.”

Izzy reappeared, somehow managing to look mighty pleased with herself. “I put in a request for the file when you asked for the search results to be sent to AD Stern. Just in case.”

Sometimes, the artificial intelligence they’d installed in these things was scary. “Good thinking, Iz.”

“Thanks, sweetie.”

Michael Sanders was a baby-faced man who looked to be in his early thirties, with a slender build and thinning brown hair. It was only when you looked at his eyes that you realized he was not as young as he first appeared. Those eyes, a brilliant, unfathomable green, were the eyes of a man who’d seen, and done, too much.

He had a clean slate, both as a police officer and in his private life. Good arrest record, lived alone, no wife. His parents were killed when he was a baby, but there was no mention on file about who had raised him after that. Relatives, presumably, though there was no next of kin listed.

So why didn’t something feel right?

“Iz, I don’t suppose you could dig up whatever info and photos we have on Sanders’s parents?”

“Looking for needles again, are we?”

“Could be.” She frowned and stared at his photo. Those eyes just didn’t belong in that face. “And dig up anything you can find on the accident that killed them.”

“I may have to search through insurance reports. It might take a while.”

“I’ve got the time, Izzy, believe me.” But whether the next reject did was another matter entirely.

After a pause, Izzy announced, “I found their driver’s license photos. Not the best quality, I’m afraid.”

“Enhance and display.”

“Can do.”

Two photos appeared onscreen. Michael Sanders looked nothing like his parents, nor did he have any siblings she could compare him with—he was an only child.

“Display Sanders’s birth certificate, Iz.”

“Onscreen.”

Bingo
. Michael Sanders was adopted. His birth mother and father were one William and Barbara Ryan. “Iz, see what you can dig up on these two.” She pointed to the two names.

The boa began to whirl. “I’m starting to stress here, darlin’.”

Sam grinned. “You’ll live.”

“Three companies found using a design similar to that logo I scanned.”

“Display.”

The names appeared onscreen. There was a textile manufacturer and a plastic surgeon, neither of which was what she was after. But the third name probably was; it was an adoption agency.

What were the odds that
that
adoption agency was the one Michael Sanders was adopted through? Whoever this Joe Black really was, he seemed mighty aware of just what was going on. But did that make him a friend or an enemy?

She didn’t know. But she had a suspicion that he was neither; that the connection between them was deeper, more mysterious—and more dangerous—than anything like mere friendship.

“Information found on adoptive parents, Frank and Margaret Sanders.”

“Hit me with it, babe.”

“Frank Sanders was born in Sydney in 1955 and worked with the Metropolitan Fire Brigade. Margaret Sanders, née Johnson, was born in Melbourne in 1956 and worked as a waitress while attending night school. She became a doctor and worked at the Royal Women’s Hospital. The two married in 1990, after Frank Sanders transferred to Melbourne. They adopted a child, a five-year-old girl named Rose Pierce, in 1995.”

She stared at the screen, wondering if she’d heard right. Rose Pierce? The elusive sister of Emma Pierce? Why, then, was Michael Sanders listed as their son? “Anything else?”

“They were killed in an automobile accident in 2020.”

Which was the year Michael Sanders was born. She frowned. “They adopted only the one child?”

“According to the records, yes.”

She rubbed a hand across her eyes. This didn’t make sense. If they adopted only Rose, why, then, did the records list squeaky-clean Michael as their son?

“We got anything on Rose Sanders, then?”

“Searching.”

At least they now knew the reason why the initial search for Rose Pierce had come up blank—though the adoption
should
have come up.

Unless, of course, someone had deliberately buried the information. It was only due to her search on Sanders’s parents that she’d even discovered Rose Pierce.

“What agency was Rose adopted from, Iz?”

“Goes by the name of Silhouettes.”

A chill ran down her spine. That was the same adoption agency that used the pin’s logo. Joe Black had pointed her to Rose,
not
Michael. He obviously knew a hell of a lot more than he was letting on. “Get me a warrant, Iz. I want to go through their files.”

“Warrant on the way, sweetie. No current information on Rose Sanders available.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Her driver’s license lapsed in 2040. There’s been no record of utility payments since then. No credit transactions recorded. No usage of Medicare card.”

“No death certificate?”

“None issued or recorded.”

Interesting
. Rose dropped out of sight about the same time that Sanders graduated from the police academy. How the two were connected, she wasn’t sure. But they
were
connected; she was sure of that.

“Warrant approved, sweetness.”

“Good. Grab the adoption records and do a scan for Rose and Michael Sanders.”

“Can do.” The boa twirled for several minutes. “Record for Rose Pierce onscreen.”

Sam looked through the documents. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Rose was placed into Silhouettes’ care when she was twelve months old, after being in the hospital for several months. A search for relatives had come up with no one. Rose stayed at the state-run home until adopted by the Sanders family. “Print me a copy of the ID photo, will you?”

“Printing. No records are available for Michael Sanders.”

For some reason, she wasn’t entirely surprised. She glanced back at Rose’s file. The officer in charge of the adoption was one Mary Elliot. Sam frowned—that name was familiar, though she wasn’t entirely sure why.

“I found a police report for the Sanderses’ accident, sweetie.”

“Read it out loud, Iz. My headache’s back.”

“If you work yourself as hard as you work me, I’m not surprised.”

She grinned. “Just read the report, Iz.”

“The Sanderses’ car was run off the Great Ocean Road and had plowed into a tree at high speed, killing both of them instantly. Several witnesses had reported seeing a red four-wheel drive hit the rear of the Sanderses’ car just before the accident. The four-wheel drive was later recovered in Warrnambool.”

“Stolen?”

“Yes. There were no prints beyond the owner’s in the car.”

“Did the witnesses ID the driver?”

“The description was deemed too vague. A big man with red-gold hair was all that the witnesses were able to provide.”

A cold sensation crept over Sam’s skin. Red-gold hair—the signature of Hopeworth’s children. Maybe the military
had
discovered Rose’s existence, and rather than jeopardize their precious project, they’d tried to destroy Rose and her parents.

So who had looked after Michael? Rose? “Did you find anything on Michael Sanders’s birth parents?”

“Not a jot, sweetie.”

“There has to be something on record.”

“Sorry, sweetness. There’s no record of a William and Barbara Ryan having a son named Michael born in 2020.”

“But how is that possible? Background checks are a part of enlistment. With such a discrepancy in his records, he should never have been cleared to join State.”

The boa twirled. “I’m not the recruiting officer. Don’t ask me.”

Sam rubbed her chin. “Did anything untoward happen around the time of Sanders’s supposed birth date?”

Izzy tapped a knobby foot for several seconds. “Headlines onscreen, sweetie.”

After flicking through several pages, she found her answer. A fire had swept through the hospital in which Michael was supposedly born. Though no one had been killed, most of the records and computing systems had been destroyed.

She leaned back in her chair. If she were a gambler, she’d put money on the fact that the fire had been deliberately set. It was just a little too convenient.

“Iz, search through Emma Pierce’s file. See if there’s any mention of when she retired from the military.”

The bony foot tapped again. “March 2040.”

Basically the same time as Michael Sanders’s appearance. Coincidence? Probably not.

“Does Mary Elliot still work for Silhouettes?”

“She retired five years ago. She currently resides at the Greensborough Home for the Aged.”

If she was in a home, then the odds of her remembering anything of note were not good. Still, it was worth a chance. Sam grabbed her handbag and placed the photo of a young Rose Pierce inside. “Book me a car, Iz. If anyone’s looking for me, I’ll be with Mary Elliot.”

G
ABRIEL GLANCED AT THE CLOCK
for the umpteenth time. He hated stakeout duty. Hated sitting alone in a car watching a dark apartment—especially when there was a murderer at large who could easily slip through their carefully laid net.

Jeanette Harris had been spirited away to safety. In her place was an SIU agent, a multi-shifter who’d assumed Jeanette’s form. The apartment itself was wired, and no one would get in or out without raising an alarm.

Yet he had a vague suspicion it wouldn’t be enough.

He scratched the back of his neck and looked around. A paperboy pedaled slowly down the street, flinging papers haphazardly at each house. Sometimes they landed near the front door, but more often than not, they landed deep in the bushes. The kid gave him a cheerful grin as he passed, and the next paper soared over the front fence and rattled against a window. The faint sound of curses could be heard. The kid chortled as he pedaled away.

Gabriel smiled and glanced back at the apartment building across the road. Nothing had moved. The black dog still sat guard near Jeanette’s front door, and the sparrow hawk was lost amongst the shadows within the branches of the gum tree. Two more SIU agents, in human guise, watched the back.

If the murderer was a cop, she’d know of the precautions taken both here and with the remaining adoptees. If she had any sense, she’d back away and bide her time.

But something told him that wouldn’t happen. The increasing urgency and violence in each successive murder pointed to a killer well aware that the SIU was closing in on her.

His wristcom beeped twice into the silence. He flicked the answer button. “Stern here.”

Stephan appeared onscreen. “Did you read the file from Sam?”

Gabriel pressed a button and saw the second call was from her. “It’s just arrived.”

“Apparently the only request for information on the adoptees, outside yours and hers, came from one Michael Sanders.”

Sanders. The State Police officer with the strange eyes. “Have you requested that he come in for an interview?”

“Yes, but he’s off duty and not home. I’ve got a team watching his apartment.”

“Good.” He glanced at the rearview mirror and frowned. The paperboy had disappeared. Odd, given that this was a cul-de-sac and the only way out of the street was the way he came in. “Call you back, Stephan. I’ve got to check something out.”

He hung up and climbed out of the car. For a moment, he stood still, listening to the sounds of the morning. The wind was chilly and thick with the scent of rain. The flow of traffic from the nearby Western Freeway was a steady hum, as were the usual morning noises as people woke and readied for work. The only thing missing was the trill of birds waking to greet the dawn.

Given the early hour, they shouldn’t be silent. And usually, the only reason they did fall quiet was that there was a predator near—or something that looked like a bird but wasn’t. Gabriel reached again for his wristcom. “Briggs, Edmonds, keep alert. Something’s happening.”

“Will do.”

He headed down the court. Two houses from the end, he found the kid’s bicycle, thrown under a large tree, with papers scattered everywhere.

The house, a two-story, slab-style building, showed no sign of life. The windows were dark, and he couldn’t hear any movement. Frown deepening, he walked down the driveway and around to the rear of the house. Again, nothing.

He scratched the back of his neck irritably and returned to the street. Jeanette Harris’s apartment block looked undisturbed and silent. He shifted shape and rose skyward.

To his hawk senses, the wind was a rich plethora of smells and sound. Toast burned two houses down, mingling with the rich aroma of coffee and the almost-too-powerful scent of rotten meat from the overflowing rubbish bins in the house just below. A mouse ducked for cover as he flew over some bushes, the creature’s shrill shriek music to his ears. Beyond that came the startled cry of a budgie from a nearby tree.

Budgies—wild budgies—didn’t actually live in suburbia. He circled toward it.

Blue feathers exploded from the tree as the budgie rose skyward, wings pumping frantically. He circled. If this budgie was the hybrid they were after—or even the missing Dr. Francis—then its sudden flight didn’t make sense. All it had to do was sit quietly in the tree and he probably wouldn’t even have seen it. His hawk sight was keen, but he wasn’t capable of seeing past the thick, dark canopy of the treetop.

He watched the budgie’s flight for several more seconds, then slowly winged after it. Every sense he had suggested this bird was a changer, and therefore more likely Dr. Francis rather than their hybrid—just as everything suggested this sudden retreat was a setup that smelled worse than Stephan’s gym shoes in summer.

Still, he had little option but to follow. He’d tried once before to catch a felon in his claws and had almost killed the man. Hawk claws were meant to rake and kill, not gently capture. Of course, killing might be considered justifiable in this case, but he wanted answers as well as her death. He needed to know why she was killing people like Miranda—people who had done nothing more than being born.

They winged their way along the Western Freeway and across to the industrialized suburb of Altona before the budgie finally began to descend.

He circled, watching the small blue bird arrow through a broken side window of what looked like an abandoned factory.

The smell of a trap was so strong he could practically walk on it. He drifted down, watching the factory, trying to see if there was anyone else about. Two cars were parked around the back of the building, which meant the budgie could have a friend waiting below. He circled down, shifting shape as he neared the ground.

The hood of the black Ford was warm to the touch and had been driven very recently. The other car was cold, suggesting it had been here for a while.

The wind tugged at several loose sheets of metal along the factory’s roof and whistled through the many gaps in the walls. The building had been abandoned for some time. Why, then, were the murderous budgie and her friend here?

He pressed the locater switch on his wristcom, then drew his gun and slowly approached the door. The handle turned somewhat stiffly, and the door opened with the slightest of creaks. He moved inside, dropping to one knee to present less of a target, and quickly scanned the darkness. The windows that weren’t broken were caked with dirt and cobwebs, and the few beams of light that managed to filter through them did little to break the blackness. He could barely see more than a few feet ahead.

He rolled his shoulders slightly, trying to ease the tension. Once his eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness, he moved along the wall. There were several large shapes across the other side—offices, by the look of them. There was also what looked like a set of stairs, leading down into a deeper pit of darkness.

He’d find the budgie there, instinct suggested, but he’d also find the trap.

He checked the two offices, but they held nothing but a scattering of broken furniture and years of dust. If there was anything in this old warehouse to find, it was definitely on the floor below. He stopped in the doorway of the second office, studying the stairway to his left.

He
should
call for backup, but in this thick silence, his voice would carry all too easy. He could text, of course, but he’d never really mastered the art on the wristcom, with its tiny keyboard, and it would take him longer than he suspected he had. They had to know he was here. If he didn’t make a move and appeared to be waiting for help, they’d surely leave. He couldn’t cover all exits, couldn’t stop two of them, and while he could fly fast, it was doubtful he’d be able to out-fly a car intent on losing any pursuer. Meaning he might lose his only opportunity to get close to this murderer. He had no idea what game she was playing right now, but he had a feeling it was one he had to see to its end.

He edged down the stairs. The darkness wrapped around him, so blanket thick that he could barely see the steps. The wind didn’t extend this far, and the still air smelled old.

When he reached the bottom step, he stopped. Though he could hear no sound, awareness washed over him. Someone stood close.

He swung, sweeping with a booted foot. His kick sliced through the thick darkness but connected with nothing more than air.

A malevolent chuckle ran around him. He moved right, keeping his back to the wall and his gun set on stun and ready to fire.

Sound whispered across the silence. Footsteps, moving through the darkness. The back of his neck began to itch again. The air stirred and he dove away, catching a brief glimpse of a knife as it sliced through where he’d stood only seconds before. He hit the ground, rolled back to his feet, and fired.

The pulsating light of the laser briefly illuminated a bloated, red-veined face, but the stranger moved far too fast and the shot missed. Footsteps slithered away.

Not the budgie, he thought, but someone else. He backed to the wall. Breath stirred the silence, its rhythm rapid, as if full of terror. Or excitement.

Another footstep scraped across the silence, this time only yards away. He dropped to a crouch and crept forward. The harsh breathing continued, each intake of air a whisper of pain. Once again this wasn’t the budgie, but her friend with the bloated face.

He rose and swung his fist. It connected with a wall of flesh that felt as solid as a brick wall. A stomach, not a chin. The man had to be huge.

There was a grunt of pain and then air stirred. He ducked. The knife sliced past his chest, the tip of steel nicking one of his shirt buttons. Obviously, they were trying to hurt rather than kill him.

He stepped back and fired the laser. In the brief flare of light he saw a bulbous nose, mismatched eyes and ragged, flapping lips, all on a figure over eight feet tall. The man looked like a cross between a giant and an ogre.

The shots hit the stranger’s shoulder. The big man grunted and stumbled away, right arm flapping uselessly. Gabriel sighted the laser on the sound of his footsteps and fired again.

The man hit the ground with a thump and didn’t move. Gabriel listened to the silence for several seconds, wondering where the hell the budgie was, then moved cautiously forward. A human form loomed out of the darkness. The stranger was a mountain, even lying down. Gabriel nudged him with a boot. He didn’t move.

This close, he could see the rise and fall of the stranger’s chest—giant bellows that struggled to work. Gabriel frowned. It almost seemed as if the weight of his flesh pressing down on his lungs was too much to move. He might die if he remained in that position for very long. The air stirred, warning him of movement behind him. He ducked, but not fast enough. Something smashed into the side of his head and the lights went out.

Sam dug out her ID and showed it to the nurse manning the reception desk. “I need to see Mary Elliot.”

The nurse frowned. “Mind if I ask why? Mary’s not in the best condition, nowadays.”

Sam put her ID away. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Short-term memory loss, stroke.” The nurse hesitated. “She’s still regaining speech and mobility.”

Damn!
Why was it that every lead they seemed to get was compromised in some way? “I need to see her, if it’s possible. We think she might be able to help us with a case. If she begins showing any signs of stress, I’ll leave.”

“Make sure you do. I don’t want her upset.” The nurse pressed a button on her desk. Seconds later, another nurse appeared. “Lisa, take Agent Ryan to see Mary, please.”

Sam nodded her thanks to the receptionist and followed the second nurse down the corridor. The rooms were all locked. Apparently, they were taking no chances on an inmate walking free.

The second nurse stopped at a door about halfway down. “Mary, like most of the patients in this wing, tends to live in the past. They have no concept of current time or events, and if we let them wander at will, they’d become dazed and confused.”

And it was a hell of a lot easier on the staff if they weren’t free to roam, Sam thought grimly. “Thanks,” she said, as the nurse opened the door.