Stewards of the Flame (43 page)

Then, in dismay, Jesse remembered the most essential precaution of all. Letting go of the body, he pulled out his phone again and dialed Carla’s number. Oh God, please let her answer! Please let her not be occupied with work that would prevent the use of her phone! He threw himself down on the floor below smoke level, trying not to cough. When he heard her voice he spoke quickly, starting with the Group password reserved for emergencies—he could not tell her anything in plain language, of course. “I need you to check the database,” he said. “My friend Zeb Hennesy’s wondering when he should report for a health checkup. The notice should have come some time last week. He’s afraid it may have gotten lost.” Ignoring her startled gasp, he whispered, “I love you, Carla,” and hung up, willing her to understand what she must do. If only telepathy worked over a phone connection . . . was it possible, perhaps, that silent communication did work at a distance when the need for it was urgent?

The smoke was thick by this time; to drag the body he had to stoop low. As he neared the kitchen, the intense heat of the fire enveloped him. He remembered the firewalk, of how red-hot coals had seemed cool . . . but he’d been in an altered state then, and had drawn on telepathic support. He was not now immune to heat, much less to the open flame he’d handled during the Ritual. Now, he would be burned. Yet he must get Zeb’s body into the fire, and the ambulance officers must see him do it.

Grimly, he dropped to the floor and crawled forward, pushing the body ahead of him. The heat became scorching, searing, and he could scarcely get breath enough to keep moving. Smoke cut off all sight but the blaze of the inferno ahead. Its crackle and roar overpowered all other sound, so that he did not hear the firefighters approach.

They broke the front door down and crashed through just as Jesse staggered to his feet and, with abnormal strength born of crisis, lifted the body. Heedless of flame, he heaved it past the burning remains of the kitchen doorway. At the same time, the ambulance crew rushed in from the back. Strong hands grasped him, not bothering to avoid a grip on his blistering forearms. He was too stunned by smoke to deal with the pain.

That Zeb couldn’t be revived was obvious. “Got a psych case here,” an officer said. “He’s murdered a man and set the house on fire to cover up.”

“Not likely we’ve got more than one arsonist on the loose,” his partner commented. “I’ll bet this guy set the other fires, too. Anyway, there’s a lot of people who’ll be glad to hear there’s somebody in custody.”

By this time the roof was ablaze. As they carried him to the ambulance, Jesse could see the firefighters pumping water from the bay, their hoses stretched across the esplanade. A crowd had gathered on the dock to watch and lights had been turned on. In the background, above the reflections on the water, he glimpsed the blue floats of his plane. He was dimly aware that he might never fly it again.

Part Five

~
 
46
 
~

When Carla got Jesse’s phone call, she was at first bewildered by what she was hearing. Zeb was wondering when to report for a health checkup? But Zeb was dying! She had inactivated his file days ago, listing him officially as in stasis.

Yet Jesse had used the Group’s emergency password.

With growing apprehension, she realized that the cryptic message could mean only one thing. Zeb, or his body, had been found. They would be checking his identity. She must reactivate the file before anyone discovered that it had been tampered with—and she must undo what she’d done to delay his health check summons, too, backdate it to the day it should have been sent out. Otherwise, it would be apparent that someone had been hacking the files.

She hurried to her own desk and with shaking hands, logged onto the Net with the backdoor password she alone knew, praying that no one would approach close enough to observe the file displayed on her monitor. Usually she hacked only when sure that others in the area were well occupied, or from Peter’s office, which she must not be seen entering during a shift when he wasn’t present. It was hard to focus, hard to proceed with the necessary speed without fumbling at the keyboard. If Zeb had been found, did that mean Jesse had been caught moving his body? Oh God, it mustn’t mean that . . . yet no ambulance crew would have gone to the safe house. No one had been into that safe house but Group members, other than patients who were now dead.

It didn’t add up. If Jesse had been caught, he wouldn’t have had a chance to use his phone. He hadn’t sounded right; his voice had been muffled—still, to call her, he must have been free. Had Zeb not died after all? Could he have recovered miraculously, left the safe house and gone somewhere he might be seen?

The files repaired, Carla forced herself back to the work she had been doing, wondering how she could last through the rest of the shift. If she said she was sick, she could leave now, find Jesse . . . but no, he would expect her to be here. He might need to call again, want something else done that required computer access. At least he would let her know he was all right.

She waited, pulling out her phone repeatedly to stare at it. No call came in. She
knew
something was wrong. Telepathy? It sometimes gave warning of distant trouble—not verbally, but through visions or simply knowledge. . . . She was afraid of that knowledge. She tried to shut it out, at the same time aware that she could not bear not to know. Finally, she logged onto the Net again and ran a search, first for Zeb’s name—he was now listed as “murdered, body unrecoverable”—and then, in terror, for Jesse’s.

Jesse had been involuntarily admitted to the Hospital two hours ago. He was charged with murder and arson. The only reason he hadn’t yet been brought to the psych department was that he was presently being treated for smoke inhalation and burns.

Carla felt faint, might actually have fainted had her training in stress control not taken over. It wasn’t hard to guess what had occurred. Arson? The safe house was in the area where the arsonist had been active. It was a likely target, being apparently unoccupied, as all the other burned houses had been. No medical telemetry was transmitted from the bathrooms of safe houses—that was another detail she routinely arranged through hacking—and heavy drapes prevented lights being noticed from the street. So evidently it had been set afire . . . and Jesse had taken the blame to prevent anyone from finding out that it was a hospice. To prevent an investigation that might expose other caregivers who’d been there, perhaps even reveal that there was another safe house next door. He had spent time phoning to save her, when he might have escaped. . . .

No. He couldn’t have escaped without setting off a hunt for everyone who had left fingerprints. He could say nothing in his own defense, and she could not defend him. If conspiracy were to be suspected, the inquiry wouldn’t end with those who’d cared for Zeb. Even Xiang Li, who owned the house, would be investigated, and Xiang was involved in many of the Group’s financial affairs. One thing would lead to another . . . how could the Group have been so blind as not to have foreseen that? But of course, no one could have anticipated a safe house catching fire. Serial arson was an unprecedented crime in the colony. That was why its citizens were so aroused. . . .

Chilled, she realized that they were perhaps sufficiently aroused to demand a scapegoat. And it was all too obvious who the scapegoat was likely to be.

She had never believed such a thing would happen. Not twice! And if it couldn’t happen to her twice—to two husbands—did that not protect Jesse? She’d told herself it would. But that had been foolish. It was hardly a coincidence that both the men she’d chosen to marry had been outstanding people, strong and committed to risking themselves to save others. After Ramón, she wouldn’t have been attracted to anyone who was less. Underneath, she must have known Jesse would be in danger precisely because of his courage.

Her mind whirled. She must go to him! But she dared not do so until she was sure he was alone. Even then she might not be able to see him; he was in custody and would be in a locked ward. No one outside the Group knew she was his wife. It wasn’t even known that they lived together, and only Zeb had been aware that she flew with him. This, like their friendship with Peter, must be kept from the Hospital authorities—otherwise she’d be watched too closely to help him later.

Later . . . later, would he be drugged senseless, his mind destroyed? As a presumed murderer, he’d be given something much worse than mere truth serum. She had never seen the victims in the criminal ward; Peter had not allowed her to work in that place. He did not talk about what went on there. She knew it was a source of deep pain to him. How could Peter possibly endure the ordeal of inflicting its horrors on Jesse? Yet if he evaded it, Jesse would be turned over to some psychiatrist who would treat him more harshly. Peter’s personal involvement was the only hope Jesse had.

She knew there would be no release for him. He would be held responsible for Zeb’s death, not merely for disposing of the body, and for burning the house he’d been found in even if not for torching others. He would be declared mentally ill and permanently incarcerated. The Group could no more devise an escape from a secure ward than it could free dead bodies from stasis.

Unable to hold back tears, Carla dropped her head into her arms, folded on the desk before her. The world blurred. She could not bear awareness of what he’d be forced to endure. Nor could she bear the years ahead, trapped here with one husband brain-dead in the vaults above the ceiling, the other brain-damaged behind a solid wall. She would crack up; she’d be a psych case herself before long. . . .

Time passed; she became aware that the shift was ending. By supreme effort she steadied herself and shut down her computer, preparing to leave. She’d been trained to control her body and mind, had she not? Jesse needed her. The Group needed her. She could not crack up, now or ever.

Where to go, until she could find a way to reach Jesse? Her normal shift was now starting, but she had traded and would not be expected to stay here. Yet she must talk to Peter. He’d gone to Ian’s house last night, would have seen the fire. Had he found out about Jesse’s arrest? Even if he had, he could not come to the Hospital until his regular arrival time. If his off-work acquaintance with Jesse became known, the case would be taken away from him; thank God they’d hidden Jesse’s presence on the Island. She could wait for him in his private office now; people on this shift were used to her going there.

Peter was late. He must be checking with the Hospital’s legal department, Carla realized. Would they really accuse Jesse of serial arson? The more she thought, the more she wondered how a fire could have been started in the safe house when there’d been a caregiver present. If Jesse had been there, he surely would have heard the arsonist break in. It must have started before he arrived. He must have seen the house burning, gone in deliberately. Even so, it was strange that Ingrid would have slept through a break-in—she’d have been alert, in case Zeb rang the bell given him to call her. If he’d already died, she’d have stayed awake to tell Jesse.

There was a couch in Peter’s office. Carla collapsed onto it, attempting to reach a state of consciousness in which she could bring her body’s stress reactions under control. She had thought that she knew how. In the years since Ramón’s death she’d had plenty of practice. But for the time being, her skill seemed to have deserted her. . . .

When she opened her eyes Peter was standing over her, his face lined with pain. They needed no words at first; even their telepathic exchange was wordless. What they felt was instinctively shared, and was too overwhelming for verbal expression.

After awhile Peter spoke. “You know, don’t you, that I’ve got to be very hard on him? In public, or anywhere I can be overheard, I can’t show the slightest sign that I believe him to be anything but a sick and violent criminal. If I don’t treat him aggressively enough I will be taken off his case—and that would be disastrous not only for him, but for us all. The hypnotic conditioning I gave him won’t withstand psychiatric probing, not after his mind is weakened. And I’ll be forced to . . . weaken it.”

“I know. And I know what it will cost you, Peter.” Peter would suffer as much as Jesse did, if not more. Jesse, once his brain was damaged, would stop caring.

“I never really thought I could be brought to such a pass,” Peter admitted. “Oh, God, Carla! How are we going to get through it?”

She rose and put her arms around him, not sure whether she was giving comfort or seeking it. They clung to each other.

“I’ll be in telepathic contact with Jesse, of course,” Peter reflected, “though I don’t know how long that will last. Some psychiatric drugs suppress paranormal functioning, and I’m required to use them on people with hallucinations. What we give to murderers just makes them lethargic.” His tone was bitter.

“I need contact with him, too,” Carla said. “You’ve got to give me duties in the secured area.”

“It would be hell for you.”

“It would be worse never to see him,” she insisted, “besides being worse for
him
.”

“In the beginning, maybe. I’ll make some excuse to send you in there. There’s a rec room for the patients; you won’t be able say much aloud, but since you’re so close telepathically—”

“How much time will we have after the start of . . . treatment?” She knew he wouldn’t retain mental clarity long, though she could not believe that even brain damage would extinguish the love they shared.

“No permanent damage will be done for ten days, at least. He’ll fight it. He won’t give in as long as he’s physically capable of resisting.”

That would just make it harder for him, knowing the fight was futile, Carla thought. Had he known from the time he entered the burning house?

In agony Peter burst out, “Of course he knew! He sacrificed himself for us—and I had to stand there, aware that he was doing it. I had to watch while they carried him to the ambulance. And the most terrible thing is that it might have been better for the Group if he’d taken his chance to escape.”

“I don’t understand!”

“He called the fire department to save the house we were in. If he hadn’t, if he’d gotten out after rescuing Ingrid—”

“Then you’d have been arrested! Ian would have been sent to the Hospital and soon to the Vaults. You and Kira would have been implicated, and through you, all the rest of us.” She saw more clearly, now, why Jesse had allowed himself to be caught; before, she’d assumed only the safe house had been involved.

“I suppose so,” Peter conceded. “But oh, Carla, Jesse was the only hope the Group had. I’d give my own life, if that could free him.”

Carla stared at him in shock. She sensed that he meant this literally. “I would, too,” she whispered. “I love him. But you, Peter—the Group couldn’t exist without you.”

“It’s unlikely that it can continue to exist without Jesse. He is less expendable than I am, Carla. A very hard time is coming to us—to everyone, not just those of us who care about him. There was a possibility that Jesse could have . . . made a difference. The difference between failure and our future survival.”

“But
how
?” She had always known he considered Jesse special, but this . . .

Peter answered, “I shouldn’t have said that. You have enough to bear without hearing it, and you mustn’t tell anyone else yet—but since it slipped out, I guess I’ve got to say more. Before long everyone in this colony will be implanted with heart monitors containing tracking chips. It means the end of neurofeedback training, and certainly of our hospice work, including our own eventual burials—” At Carla’s gasp he went on, “Ian and I have known this for some time. But we had a plan. Ian had a dream, an earlier precognitive dream than the one I’ve already mentioned to you—and in that dream, Jesse played a key role. That’s why I moved so fast to recruit him.”