The Soul Collectors

20

When Darby's eyes fluttered open, everything appeared blurry, as if her vision was coated with Vaseline. And her head, Jesus, her head felt as heavy as a sandbag, and it was hanging suspended over her lap. She had a vague sense of something biting into the skin around her wrists and ankles, of something wrapped tightly around both biceps.

It took a few minutes of blinking to clear away the filmy layer.

The first thing she noticed was the string of drool hanging from her mouth. She had collected quite a puddle on the lap of her hospital johnnies or scrubs or whatever they were. On the dark blue fabric covering her thigh she spotted a tiny hole from the tranquillizer dart and, surrounding it, a dried patch of blood the size of a half-dollar.

They had bound her to a wheelchair. Thick Velcro straps were wrapped around her wrists and biceps to keep her from toppling off her seat. The same straps, she suspected, were wrapped around her ankles and shins.

Lifting her head — slowly, she reminded herself, do it slowly — she heard popping sounds in her shoulders and neck. When she finally sat up, the muscles in her back and shoulders sighed in relief. Her right hand, though, was throbbing. Swollen and cut from punching the feds.

They had moved her into a new room, small, everything white, including the empty desk and chair.

No security cameras on the wall facing her. She looked over her shoulder, the muscles groaning in protest, and didn't see any cameras on the walls. Nobody stood behind her. No clock anywhere.

Darby stretched her neck and moved her shoulders to get the blood flowing. She wondered why she'd been placed in here and not back in her room.

The door clicked open behind her.

'Good, you're awake,' a man said. He had a smoker's voice, deep and raspy, and a slight European accent — Eastern Europe. Russian, maybe.

A squeak of footsteps as moved to face her. He looked like an older version of the Irish actor Colin Farrell; he even had the same black hair. He was trim and tall, hovering close to six feet, and wore army fatigues, boots and a short-sleeved olive T-shirt that showed off his repulsively hairy forearms.

A clipboard holding a thick stack of paper was tucked underneath his arm. He removed it and placed it on the desk. Stamped in bright gold on a corner of the top page was the logo for the US Army.

He leaned back against the desk and crossed his arms over his chest. He methodically chewed his gum while staring down at her with a cold, flat glare, trying to intimidate her. That kind of ability came naturally; you either had it or you didn't. This guy didn't. And he didn't have a badge or ID indicating his name or rank or what he did here.

'You keep staring at me like that,' she said, 'I'm likely to wet my pants in terror.'

'You broke a man's finger. Your doctor's finger.'

Darby said nothing.

'And you attacked two federal officers.'

Darby said nothing.

'The first guy you hit is in the hospital,' he said. 'Shattered his nose, and his balls are going to be swollen for weeks.'

Darby said nothing.

Army Boy went back to chewing his gum, pausing, she guessed, to let the significance of his words sink in. His hair, while not excessively long, covered the tips of his ears. Not an army-regulation haircut. And he had two to three days' growth of beard, which was also against regulations.

'The other guy's also in the hospital,' he said. 'That gut punch of yours? He fell and cracked his head against the wall. Serious stuff.'

Darby said nothing, looking at the man's smooth biceps. No tattoos.

'Was all that really necessary?' he asked.

'All fights involve gravity and weapons.'

'And that's supposed to mean what?'

'When you fight, you don't do it half-assed. And you always assume the other person is armed, so you hit him to make sure he can't get up.'

'Those guys you hit are federal agents,' he said.

'Boston office?'

He shook his head. 'Washington. That little stunt of yours cost you big time. You're looking at aggravated assault.'

No, I'm not. Nobody's going to do anything.

Another dramatic pause. More chewing. Darby wanted to hurry the charade along, have Army Boy get to the point. Instead, she kept quiet and waited.

He stopped chewing. Here came the politician's smile.

'I explained to these gentlemen that you're on a lot of pain meds due to your broken ribs. That you were feeling an overwhelming and irrational anxiety brought on by cabin fever, a normal reaction for someone trapped inside a quarantine chamber. I also told them you got your period, you know, mood swings, PMS, all that good stuff.'

'Clever,' she said.

'Thank you. In other words, I convinced them that you weren't in any kind of normal or rational state when you went all Rambo back there. Plus — and this is where you got lucky — I reminded your two victims that they didn't identify themselves as federal agents. If they had, you'd be in deep shit. You're welcome.'

Darby said nothing.

'Your blood work came back,' he said. 'You're in the clear.'

'Good to know, since the two feds who rushed into my room weren't wearing any hazmat gear. What are they doing all the way here from Washington?'

'They came to review a few things about your statement.'

'The feds carrying tranquillizer guns now?'

He shook his head. 'We are. They borrowed them. I'm Billy Fitzgerald, by the way.'

'And what do you do here, Billy?'

'I guess you could say I'm the second-in-command. When Glick isn't around, I run the show. More often than not I'm what you'd call a desk jockey. All I do is shuffle paper, like the ones attached to the clipboard.'

'Can I see some ID?'

'What for?'

'Polite thing to do when you're interrogating someone.'

Billy laughed. 'This isn't an interrogation.'

'Good. So let me speak to Sergeant-Major Glick.'

'He's unavailable.'

'Then make him available.'

He blew out a long stream of air through his mouth.

'Dr McCormick, let me explain the lay of the land to you. You're a civilian now. No Boston PD badge — not that it would make a lick of difference. Badges and fancy Harvard degrees don't hold much with me.'

He picked up the clipboard, removed the stack of paper and flipped through the pages. Then he held up three or four sheets.

'These pages are real important,' he said. 'I'm going to tuck them in the back, save the best for last.'

After he did, he stood and placed the clipboard on her lap.

'I'm going to unbind the cuffs on your right arm,' he said. 'You promise to be a good girl and not try any of that kung fu shit with me?'

She didn't answer.

He undid the cuffs binding her right arm, watching her carefully, then he dropped a pen on her lap and returned to the desk.

'Read and initial each page,' he said, pulling out a chair. 'Sign your name where stated, and after you've finished I'll have someone drive you home. I'd suggest sticking around your place. The feds will still want to talk to you.'

'How goes the investigation up north?'

He smiled. 'That's classified.'

'Because the army is involved.'

'Army, FBI, ATF. It's a joint effort.'

'Have they found Mark Rizzo?'

'Couldn't tell you.'

'Then maybe you can tell me the army's interest in a private biomedical facility?'

'Look, we can keep going like this, you asking me questions I can't answer, and entertaining me with your snappy comebacks. Either way, I'm here until ten. Or you can sign the forms and you'll be on your way.'

Darby stared at the clipboard, thinking back to the day when the Boston FBI office sent two Irish boys to get her statement. They proclaimed ignorance about what was going on up north, so she gave them a vague rehash of what had happened that night and told them that if they wanted to know the particulars, they had better come back with someone who could answer her questions. The same pair returned the following day with no answers for her and took another shot. She ignored them until they finally gave up and left, frustrated.

Now her new friend Billy Fitzgerald had said the feds sent two bigwigs from Washington — the two bozos who had rushed into her quarantine room sans hazmat gear. She had assaulted two federal officers, put both men in the hospital, and instead of being cuffed and hauled away, Army Boy was telling her all she had to do was sign these forms and she would be free to go, no charges filed and no more questions.

Interesting.

Darby shifted in her chair, the other strap digging into her arm.

'What am I signing?'

'Medical release forms and some other things,' he said. 'Go on and give it a read. You're going to love it. It's a real page-turner.'