The Gates of Winter (31 page)

The noise penetrated her skull. She had to run, she had to get out. Except she couldn't. All the doors would be locked, and the elevators as well. In seconds they would find her and the disk. Then the questioning would begin. They would use every method available—intimidation, drugs, even pain—and in the end she would tell them everything, including what she had discovered today in her lab. She leaned against a wall, resting her head against the cool paint, and waited for them to come.

“Well, I wouldn't have thought you'd give up that easily,” said a rasping voice. The voice was low, but somehow she heard it over the wail of the alarm. “I thought you had a bit more stubbornness in you than that, daughter.”

Larsen was too frightened to be startled further. She opened her eyes. A man stood beside her. He was tall and gaunt, dressed in a dusty black suit that hung on him like old clothes on a scarecrow. He watched her with black marble eyes.

“Who are you?”

He laughed: a booming sound far louder than the alarm. “I like you, daughter. You always ask the hardest questions first, don't you? Yet I fear this one will have to wait for an answer. You must leave this place.”

She shook her head. “I don't know how you got in here, but the doors are all locked. There's no way out.”

“Nonsense. If there's hope, there's always a way out.” He gestured with a knobby hand at the doors. “Go ahead.”

“It won't work. I already tried.”

“Then try again.”

It was ridiculous. She didn't know who this man was. Given his shabby clothes, he was probably an indigent who had managed to wander in.

Past the electric fence and motion detectors? Past the armed guards at the gate and magnetic doors that can only be opened with a valid identification card?

Larsen pushed on one of the doors. It swung open. Cold air struck her face, clearing her head, as the night rushed in. Her mind searched for a rational explanation but found none. It was, simply, impossible.

“Go, daughter. Do not fear the guards at the gate. They will not see you if you move swiftly.”

How did you open the locks?
she wanted to ask.
And why are you helping me?
Instead, she said, “Where should I go?”

A smile split his cadaverous face. “A place you can hide. A place for those with nowhere else to go.”

He pressed something into her hand. She looked down and saw it was a business card. On it was printed an address in downtown Denver, as well as two lines of cheerfully bold text:

The Hope Mission
Come on in—we want to save
you
!

She looked back up, and her breath caught on her lips. The man in black was gone. The corridor was empty, but not for long. Shouts echoed above the alarm. Boots pounded against hard tiles. She clutched the card in her hand.

They will not see you if you move swiftly. . . .

Then Dr. Ananda Larsen fled through the doors, and the night wrapped her in safe, dark arms.

34.

The sun dipped behind the mountains, casting a blue cloak of twilight over the city, as Travis ran out of the park and past the library. This was beyond him now. He had to tell someone what he had learned—he had to warn them about what was happening. And he didn't have much time.

As he staggered down Thirteenth Avenue, he cursed his own stupidity. He had let himself believe they were a world away, that they couldn't reach him. Only they could. The servants of Mohg and the Pale King were right here. He heard again the mocking words of the young witch he had encountered in the park. The Deadies, Jessie had called them, the Brights.
They'll find you. You can't win against them. That's the one thing I do know. . . .

She had been weak, her power a fraction of Grace's or Aryn's. He should never have opened the iron box and used the magic of the Great Stones against her. Only he had, and to the wraithlings it would be like a beacon in the night. The first time he had opened the box, when he tried to break the Stones, it would have alerted them he was in Denver. After that, they would have been watching, waiting. Which meant they were already closing in on the park. He had to run.

The blocky outlines of the downtown Denver police station hove into view.

No, Travis, you can't go there. Someone will recognize you, and then even Sergeant Otero won't believe what you have to say. They'll put you in jail.

Travis came to a halt on the sidewalk, staring at the door of the police station, longing to go in. But he couldn't. They wouldn't listen to him, and even if they did, what could they do? The city had signed a security contract with Duratek.

He thought about calling Davis and Mitchell Burke-Favor in Castle City. But he had put the two ranchers in grave peril the last time he had contacted them, and anyway, he didn't know what they could do. Somehow he had to tell everyone in Denver the truth about what was happening here.

All this time, secrecy had been the most potent weapon wielded by Duratek and Mohg; they did their evil work in the shadows where no one could see. However, if people knew the truth, they would rise up against them in outrage, Travis was sure of it. Only how could he tell everyone in Denver what he knew?

He turned his back to the police station and saw it glowing against the deepening purple of the sky: a billboard with four bland, smiling faces plastered across it.
DENVER
'
S MOST WATCHED NEWS TEAM,
blared the caption below.

Shock crackled through him, then understanding. Travis shoved his hands in his pockets, hurried east down Thirteenth Avenue, and turned south on Lincoln Street. On the side of an office building hung an illuminated banner with the same four stiffly smiling faces. Atop the building, satellite dishes sprouted like Brobdingnagian mushrooms.

Travis started toward the building, then hesitated. What about Marty and Jay? He had promised to meet them at sundown in Confluence Park, and it was almost full night.

Don't worry about them, Travis. They're probably warm and safe right now in the Steel Cathedral, eating a hot meal, and Jay is laughing at how stupid you are for not coming with them.

He crossed the street, wove his way past a cavalcade of parked news vehicles, and pushed through glass doors into the lobby beyond. After being in the chill of the outdoors all day, the shock of sudden warmth paralyzed him. The lobby was brightly lit, the floor polished stone. Televisions were mounted in each corner, displaying the evening news, but the sound was turned down in favor of generic soft-rock music that drifted from unseen speakers.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Travis wiped his eyes. The lobby was empty except for a receptionist sitting behind a counter. She was young—not much older than the witch Jessie—a gold nose ring accenting her dark skin. Her expression was at once courteous and suspicious. He didn't belong here, and they both knew it.

He shambled up to the counter. “I need to talk to someone.”

She smiled, but her eyes narrowed a fraction. “Let me know whom you have an appointment with, and I'll call to tell them you're here.” She didn't reach for the phone.

Travis licked his lips. He picked through his brain, searching, but he couldn't remember the names of any of the news anchors, not even the weatherman.

“Sir?”

A name came to him, and he blurted it out. “Anna Ferraro. I need to see Anna Ferraro.”

For a moment the young woman's polite facade crumbled, and her eyes darted to one side. Then she spoke in a formal tone. “I'm sorry, sir, but Ms. Ferraro no longer works here.”

He stared at her. “What?”

“You have to leave now, sir.”

He shook his head, and she looked up at him, her brown eyes imploring. “Please,” she said softly. “I don't want to have to call them.”

Her gaze flicked again to the left, toward a door labeled
Security
. Travis understood. All the same, he had to try; this was his only chance. He stepped away, tensing to make a dash for the hallway behind the counter.

Motion caught his eye. Outside the plate glass windows, a woman walked across the parking lot, a cardboard box in her hands. She passed through a pool of light, and Travis's heart skipped in his chest. Then he was running. Ignoring the startled cry of the receptionist, he slammed through the doors and pounded across the parking lot. He caught up with the woman just as she set the box on the trunk of a car and began rummaging through her purse.

She turned around, an annoyed look on her face. “You're not going to mug me, are you? Not that it wouldn't be the perfect ending to this complete disaster of a day.”

Her tone so completely disarmed him that he could only stare, slack-jawed.

The woman let out a groan. “God, even the muggers around here are incompetent.” She dug deeper in her purse and pulled out a set of keys. “Well?” she said.

“Sorry,” Travis mumbled. He grabbed the box so she could open the trunk, then set it down inside.

“Thanks,” she said as she slammed the trunk shut, then opened the driver's side door.

“Wait,” Travis said hoarsely.

She turned around. “For what?”

“I want to talk to you.”

She smacked her forehead. “Jesus, you're not a mugger, you're a fan. Just my luck. Well, here's one last news story for you, pal: I'm not giving out any more autographs. Why? Because I just got fired, that's why.”

Travis's fear receded. She was older than she looked on TV, more serious. Even in the dim light of the parking lot, the thick makeup she wore couldn't completely hide the lines of weariness around her mouth. On screen, her eyes had always seemed as glossy as her lips. Now they snapped with a sarcastic light. Maybe TV could make anyone look pretty and vapid.

Those eyes narrowed. She gave him a piercing look, then nodded and shut the car door. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”

“Why did you get fired, Ms. Ferraro?”

She crossed her arms across her overcoat and leaned back against the car. “Good question. And call me Anna. Ferraro was my bastard of an ex-husband's name.”

“So why do you still use it?”

“Do you really think anyone would hire a reporter named Anna Blattenberger?”

He winced. “Good point.”

She chewed one of her fingernails; the stylish red nail polish was chipped. “Not that anyone's going to hire me now, no matter what name I use.”

“What happened?”

She looked away. “There was no warning. I was in the editing bay with Kevin, one of the photojournalists. We were cutting together a story we shot this afternoon.”

“One about the disappearances among the homeless?”

She looked back at him, her gaze calculating. “Yes, about the disappearances. Only when we were nearly done, Victor came in—he's the news director. He asked Kevin to leave us alone, then he told me to go clean out my desk. That was it. He didn't give me a reason. He just said I had fifteen minutes to leave, and that if I talked to anyone, he'd have security throw me out of the building. So I packed my box. And on the way out, I saw Victor was still in the editing bay, deleting all the footage Kevin and I shot from the video server.” She shook her head. “But why?”

The question wasn't for Travis. He answered all the same. “Because he's working for Duratek.”

She scowled at him, her makeup cracking. “What are you talking about?”

Travis had to be careful how he worded this; she had to believe him. “Something is wrong in this city, and Duratek Corporation is part of it. They're behind the disappearances.”

Ferraro stood up straight. “You have evidence of this?”

“No. I only . . . I know it's true, that's all, and I can prove it to you later. But first we have to get on TV. I have to get a message out to all the people of Denver.”

She rolled her eyes. “So that's it. You're just some nutcase who wants to spout off about his manifesto on TV.”

No, she had it all wrong. “Please, you've got to believe me. I'm not crazy.”

“Really? You sure could have fooled me.” She pulled a pack of cigarettes from a pocket, lit one up, and took a drag. “I know who you are, by the way. It took me a minute with the beard and the hair, but we showed your photo enough times on the news last fall. You're the guy the police were searching for, along with that doctor. You're Travis Wilder.”

He clenched his hands in his pockets. “So are you going to call the police?”

“I might. But you wanted to talk, so let's talk.”

Anger flooded him. “Why? So you can land a big scoop and get your job back? That's all you care about, isn't it—getting the story? That was why you cut off Sergeant Otero when he was trying to talk about the disappearances.”

“It's true, I did cut him off in that piece. Do you know why?” She tossed down the cigarette and stamped it out with a heel. “Otero does care about the disappearances, but he's one of the few who does, and I wanted people to get angry, to call the police, to force them to do something. Journalism isn't just about recycling information, Mr. Wilder. It's about getting a reaction out of people, making them care.”

His anger cooled into shame. “Did it?” he said finally. “Get a reaction?”

She didn't meet his gaze. “No.”

He nodded, then took a step closer. “They're afraid, Anna. The people of this city. Of every city in this country. They're not going to stand up against Duratek, not unless they know the truth.”

“Which you do,” she said with a skeptical glare.

“No, not completely. But I do know Duratek is linked to the disappearances. And I . . . I can show you something that might help you believe me.” He squeezed the iron box in his pocket.

She sighed. “Fine, let's pretend for a minute that you're not just an escaped mental patient with severe paranoia and a messiah complex, and that Duratek is somehow behind all of this. I can't say it would be a complete shock—journalists have been trying to dig up evidence of shady dealings at Duratek for years, only without luck. But even if you have evidence to prove it's true, there's still no place I can take the story.”

“What about another TV station?”

“No go. Victor has a lot of friends in this town. None of the other news directors will even talk to me now. Same goes for the editors at the newspapers.”

There had to be somewhere else they could go. “I don't understand.” His voice was a croak. “I thought news was about telling the truth.”

She laughed, a bitter sound. “You really are crazy, Mr. Wilder. Nothing is what it seems on TV. That's the first lesson every journalist learns. It's all a fantasy. Here's a good example for you: You know the televangelist Sage Carson? He's always preaching about helping others, so I thought he would lend a hand, maybe show some pictures of the missing men and women on his show. But you know what? He wouldn't even return my calls. So much for charity.”

Hope turned to dust in Travis's chest. Anna Ferraro had listened to him, but she couldn't help, and he doubted anyone else would believe him.

“Don't look now,” Ferraro muttered, “but here comes the goon squad.”

Travis turned to see a pair of thick-necked men in blue uniforms walking across the parking lot. For a terrified moment he thought they were police officers. Then he saw the patches on their uniforms; they were security guards. All the same, they carried guns.

“You were instructed to leave the property within fifteen minutes, Ms. Ferraro,” one of the guards said as they approached. “You're now trespassing. If you don't leave immediately, we'll call the police.”

She glared at him. “Cut the tough guy act, Ben. Believe me, I'm getting out of this dump.”

The other guard gazed at Travis, eyes suspicious. “Who are you?”

“A man who was kind enough to help me put my things in the trunk,” Ferraro said. “Unlike any of you, Ron.”

“You need to go now,” the first guard said, his eyes dark, without expression. “Both of you.” He reached for the cell phone clipped at his belt.

Ferraro jerked open the car door. “God, Ben, when did you turn into such a creep? You used to be a gentleman.”

The guard said nothing as he raised the phone. The logo emblazoned on the device glowed in the light of a nearby streetlamp: a white crescent moon merging into a capital D. A coldness spilled into Travis's gut. There was something about the monotonous way the guard talked, about the flatness of his eyes. Something wrong.

“You have to go, Anna,” Travis whispered. “Now.”

She met his gaze, then nodded. “Let me just give you a tip for helping me with the box,” she said—loudly, for the benefit of the two men. She rummaged in her purse, then pushed a crumpled piece of paper into his hand. He shoved it in his pocket.

Travis stepped away as she got into the car and shut the door. She rolled down the window and looked out. Her expression was still one of annoyance, but Travis saw the glint of fear in her eyes.

“Be careful,” she said, glancing past him.

“Don't worry about me,” he said with a sudden grin, and he tightened his grip around the box in his pocket.

Ferraro gave a grim nod. She hit the gas, and her car peeled out of the parking lot, speeding down Lincoln Street. Travis felt his grin crumble away, and he turned around.