The Sleepless Stars (6 page)

I felt the drug course through my body on a seek-and-destroy mission, rattling through every one of my nerve endings like a machine gun. I’d taken it before. Each time was a little easier. At least this time, I wasn’t screaming in agony or slobbering, helpless as the pain swamped me.

Thank God Ryder isn’t here to see this
, was my last thought before I reached out to take Daniel’s hand in mine.

Then I fell, spiraling through a black void, no end, no beginning, barely able to hang on to the fact that I was me...

RYDER LEFT GREY
ferreting among the crime scene debris and stepped into an alley to call Devon Price. Rossi’s cell had been taken when she’d been kidnapped by Tommaso Lazaretto last night—it might even be part of the wreckage from the explosion. Although Price had given her a new untraceable replacement, Ryder didn’t want to chance calling her from his phone.

Any precaution to keep her safe. At least that’s the excuse he told himself. In reality, it was just too painful to think of talking with her, knowing he couldn’t see her, be with her. Here they were, each trying to protect the other, both suffering for their efforts.

Until they knew the full extent of the threat against her, it was the only way.

“Our mutual friend okay?” he asked Price as soon as the other man answered. Wasn’t the greeting he’d planned on, but Price would understand.

“Just fine. Should be a quiet evening at home.”

Whatever the hell that meant. “I’m at the crime scene with a Fed from DC headquarters.”

“Got a name? I’ll run him.”

Price was taking operational security extremely seriously. Ryder liked that in a man who was protecting the lives of twenty-some families along with Rossi. “Grey. With an ‘e.’ Michael Grey.”

“Got it.”

“From what he’s not saying, I’m guessing he’s from some hush-hush counterterrorism unit. He knows about the lab—not sure exactly what. Mentioned that he was on the trail of a domestic terrorist, but that could be for show. I’m going to stick with him, see if he has any leads that might help us.”

Price had told him about the Almanac Care Institute that had provided financial backing for Lazaretto’s lab and thugs—including the ones who killed Jacob and kidnapped Rossi. If they weren’t all dead already, Ryder would have loved to have a few minutes alone with them.

“Be careful,” Price answered. “Most of what we have going for us is that Almanac has no idea we’re on to them. If this Fed stirs up trouble—”

“They’ll know we know.” Ryder thought about that. “Grey wouldn’t have gotten here so soon, especially with the drug lab explosion cover story the brass gave the media, if he didn’t already suspect someone. Plus, he dropped Lazaretto’s name, said he was missing, not among the dead found at the scene.”

Price was silent, not admitting to anything over the phone, but they both knew Lazaretto was dead. Ryder still wasn’t clear on the details; Price had assured him it was self-inflicted and that he’d “take care of things.” Ryder hadn’t asked for specifics—couldn’t, not without being forced to make a decision about upholding the law versus protecting Rossi. Although he guessed that by refusing to make that choice, he’d already committed himself.

To Rossi rather than his job. Still, it felt right. As if protecting her was the best way to also serve and protect the civilians he’d sworn an oath to.

“How could Grey know Tommaso wasn’t among the dead if no one’s been identified yet?” Price asked.

“My point exactly. He knows more than he’s saying.”

“More than we’ve got, then. Okay, stay with him. See if he’ll give you anything we can follow.”

Meaning Ryder’s job would be to keep the Fed company while Price and Rossi did the real work. Damn it, if he could just be there with her... “Who knows? Maybe this domestic terrorism lead is another Almanac front to cover their tracks. A good way to hide something—like blowing up your own lab to destroy evidence.”

“Detective Ryder, when did you start concocting such devious and twisted plots?”

“Since I started hanging out with you,” Ryder retorted.

“If Grey is on the trail of Almanac and thinks they’re terrorists, then you need to be careful. If he thinks you’re holding out on him—”

“What’s he going to do, arrest me?”

“I’m just saying, terrorism is a hot button for these guys.”

“I know, but I’m a cop, not one of your Russian mob friends.”

“Keep me in the loop.”

Ryder considered that. Trusting a civilian with definite organized crime connections more than his fellow law enforcement professionals? Talk about a world gone crazy. He glanced over his shoulder to where Grey was talking on his own phone—no doubt sounding just as paranoid about Ryder as Ryder sounded about him.

“Okay. But don’t do anything drastic without talking to me. Last thing we need is to piss off the FBI.”

“Right. Keep me updated.” Price hung up.

Ryder stared at the phone for a long moment before pocketing it once more. He slogged back through the muddy street—the firefighters’ foam had turned into rainbow puddles covered with a slick of ice—and rejoined Grey. “My guys have nothing on any domestic terrorist cell. So why don’t you tell me what you have? Something must have brought you up here on Christmas night. Something that couldn’t wait until morning?”

Grey was crouched, the remnants of a biohazard warning dangling from a silver ballpoint pen. He dropped the bit of yellow plastic and stood to face Ryder. “I wanted to see the scene fresh, but thanks to your fire department, I doubt there’s anything of interest left behind. Still, our guys will double-check, just to be certain.”

Ryder waited, saying nothing, giving the Fed space. Grey pivoted, staring out over the river. Finally, he nodded to the mountain across the water. “Ever hear of the Sons of Adam?”

“Fringe militia cult. Tried to blow up a hospital in Pittsburgh a few years ago.”

“Right. They’re back. Under new leadership. More radical than ever. Basically, if you’re not a white, Christian male, you’re fair game.”

“You think they’re behind all this?”

“Their new leader calls himself Brother Tyrone. Real name unknown—that’s how good he is at covering his tracks. I’ve been trailing him across the Midwest and up through Appalachia. He’s a charismatic SOB, sets up shop in a blue-collar town, offers his followers thrills along with his own special form of social activism. Snake handling, fire walking... Hell, he’s led sermons from deep down in abandoned coal mines to the middle of a lake during a thunderstorm with tornados and water spouts racing past.”

“Must make quite an impression. What’s he preach? This activism of his?” Could this Brother Tyrone be connected to Lazaretto and Almanac Care? If so, maybe there were more people infected with fatal insomnia. Ryder was half-tempted to reciprocate and share his own intel with Grey but decided it was better to play it safe. At least for now.

“He calls it purifying, but it translates to vigilantism. Gets poor folks frustrated with the way things are in their communities all riled up and tells them they can stand up for what’s right, make a change, even if the police and government can’t. By the time he’s done with them, they’ve torn down crack houses, rousted the homeless out of town, burned out sex offender encampments, even firebombed a mosque. Whatever needs purifying—in their eyes—he empowers them to purify.”

“Including murder?”

Grey shook his head. “Not until now. Which is why I’m here. Because I have the feeling that this,” he gestured to the debris surrounding them, “is just the beginning.”

EVERY OTHER TIME
I’d touched someone’s mind, I’d been consumed by darkness. More than black, less than emptiness. A void, infinite and ravenous.

Not this time. Daniel’s mind was gray fog, swirling thick, so thick it was difficult to tell which side was up. This fog wasn’t like the kind that moved in from the river, swamping the city in its moist tendrils, easily swept aside. This fog was alive, a million spider webs tangled and interwoven, grasping for prey.

It took all my strength to shuffle through it. Unseen fingers grabbed at my ankles, trying to pull me down. Finally, I resorted to parting the thick mist with my arms, swimming past its greedy wisps.

A man’s laughter came from behind me. The sound dispersed the fog with the sudden ferocity of a thunderclap, leaving me standing in bright sunshine, arms waving through clear air.

Daniel lounged in a wicker chaise alongside a large oval swimming pool with a waterfall at one end. He sipped some tropical-looking concoction and waved me over with his drinking hand. “That was easier than I thought it would be.”

I shook away his offer of a drink but did sit in the chair that appeared beside him. “I’m Angela—”

“I know who you are, Dr. Rossi. I’ve been expecting you.”

“You have?”

“Aren’t you doctors always telling families that patients in comas can hear everything?”

“Right. Of course.” The chair was low and deep, and I kept sinking farther into it. I shoved my weight forward to perch on the edge. “Then you know why I’m here?”

“Yes.” A twinkle entered his eye. He was having fun, making me work for what I needed. “But don’t let that stop you from asking.”

“Why?” I asked, already infuriated with his games. True, he was dying, and I was hastening things with my visit, but if he’d heard everything, then he knew children’s lives were at risk—including Devon’s child, Daniel’s own granddaughter.

“Because I’m bored and lonely.” He pouted. “Do a dying man a favor and allow him to enjoy one last conversation.”

“Okay, then. Who did Leo create the PXA for? What do they want? How do we stop them?” Once the questions began, it was difficult to stop them from all flooding out, but I managed to hold back after those three. They were the most important, anyway.

Daniel’s expression was one of smug amusement. Again, I had the awful feeling of being trapped in a spider’s web, as if that gruesome fog still clung to my skin.

“Leo did not create PXA.” He took another sip of his orange-red drink. The colors swirled but never mixed, a sunset trapped in a glass.

“No? He only developed it into the ultimate torture and interrogation drug.” My voice rose, becoming sharp. I let it. “You knew there was a reversal agent, didn’t you? Those women who died after Leo overdosed them on PXA—you could have saved them.”

“To what end? To testify that my son was a sadistic killer?” He waved a hand as if the murders of over a dozen women were of no consequence.

“Give me the formula for the reversal agent.” We had a sample, but it would take time to synthesize the formula, so I thought the request was a good test of his intentions.

He considered that. “And what will you give me in return?”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing except your company.” Suddenly, we were in a lush, well-manicured garden somewhere in the countryside. The green stretched as far as I could see in one direction, in the other was a thick forest, and behind us a mansion even larger than Daniel’s brownstone. It was like something out of a movie. “Come. Walk with me.”

He led me into the garden, the sweet perfume of flowers in bloom wafting in the gentle breeze.

“The PXA reversal?” I reminded him.

He nodded, and a chemical formula appeared in my mind, inked on a piece of parchment that flitted to the ground before me. I stooped, grabbed it, committed it to memory, then folded it into a square and pocketed it.

“Thank you.”

“How could I resist? You look so much like her.”

I frowned. He was confused—I should have expected as much, given the severity of his stroke. “Everyone says I look like my father.”

His smile was indulgent. “I never met your father.” We continued down the path. “No, you remind me of an old friend. When I was young, so much younger.”

I looked down, and my clothing had changed to riding pants and a silk blouse. I’d never been on a horse, so this must be a wisp of Daniel’s memory about his childhood friend. “Tell me about the people who created the PXA. Did you know they also found a way to create an artificial form of fatal insomnia? What do they want? How did they do that?”

How do we stop them?
was what I really wanted to ask. But I knew better than to push him. I was more certain than ever that Daniel’s company was involved—if not Daniel himself.

“Fatal insomnia? Never heard of it.”

I didn’t believe him. “But you know who’s behind the PXA?”

“It’s not a new drug. Goes back centuries. My company—well, one of our divisions—was hired to create a synthetic form that could easily be produced in mass quantities. Until now, they never needed large amounts, distilled it by hand.”

“They? Who’s they?”

We reached the end of the gardens. Beyond the eight-foot-tall boxwood hedge, two young boys waited with horses. Big, black horses, their coats brushed sleek, fine leather saddles molded to their backs.

“Ride with me, and I’ll show you.” Daniel suddenly appeared younger, in his thirties. He climbed onto his horse with the grace and ease of experience.

I stared up at my mount with terror. I’d never even been this close to a horse before. Knew nothing of how to get up there onto the saddle, or what to do once I did. The groom knelt and cupped his hands, waiting for me.

“Do you want answers or not?” Daniel asked.

I gathered my breath and stepped onto the boy’s hands. He handled my weight effortlessly, lifting me up into the saddle. It was so high up, higher than I’d imagined. He backed away to adjust the stirrups. The other boy handed me the reins. The horse sniffed and tossed its head as I gripped the reins tight.

“Relax. The horse knows what to do. Give it its head.” With that, Daniel galloped into the woods, disappearing from sight.

My horse bolted after him with me clinging to its back with everything I had.