The Soul Collectors

21

Darby flipped through the stack of sheets with her free hand. Fifty-two pages packed with fine print. She started to read.

The front part, the first fourteen pages, consisted of forms releasing the BU Biomedical lab from any medical liability. After that came page after page of confidentiality agreements that spelled out, in excruciating detail, all the legal ramifications: ten years in prison along with a multitude of fines that, if they were ever enforced, would successfully bankrupt her — if she should ever feel oh so inclined to share any information about what she had seen or heard here during her treatment.

The bulk of the pages, though, concerned the events of that night in New Hampshire. Lots of fine print crammed with that mind-numbing legalese that made her head spin. She kept seeing the phrase 'the USA Patriot Act' in almost every line. The Patriot Act, a law enacted by former president George W. Bush the month after 9/11, gave law enforcement agencies the right to search anyone's telephone, email, financial and medical records — any record, for that matter — without a court order.

She looked up and said, 'A little extreme, don't you think?'

'When it comes to matters of domestic terrorism and national security, you bet we're extreme.'

Especially when you're trying to hide something. Darby didn't need to voice this; it hung in the air between them. She looked at the man's cold gaze and wondered what, exactly, he was so afraid she was going to find.

'I need my lawyer to review this before I sign,' she said. 'There's a lot of legal language in here I don't understand.'

'Really? I think it's pretty straightforward.'

'I'd still like my lawyer to look at it.'

'Sure, we can do that. Might take, oh, a week or two before our guys can get to it. You know how busy lawyers are. While they're working it out, you're going to have to stay here.' He grinned. 'Liability issues.'

'Do I get copies after I sign?'

'We'll forward them to you after we get the appropriate signatures.'

'From whom? I don't see any names listed here except mine.'

'Make sure you read pages fifteen through twenty real carefully, as they spell out in great detail what will happen if we catch you poking that pretty little nose of yours into this matter. In simple terms, we'll have you arrested. That wouldn't go over too well with the Boston brass, given your rather, ah, tenuous position with them over that matter involving the police commissioner. You wouldn't want to deep-six any remaining chances you might have for reinstatement — or any future employment opportunities, say, in another state.'

Billy Fitzgerald's eyes were dancing, all bright and confident. 'In other words, the US Army owns that pretty little ass of yours.'

Darby felt her face flush with heat; her mouth was dry, tongue thick with thirst. She swallowed.

'You all right, hon? Want some water? A soda?'

She didn't want anything to drink. What she wanted right now was to get out of the wheelchair, lock the door and pound his face until his teeth turned to dust.

She started undoing the strap binding her left wrist.

Army Boy reached for his belt and came back with a tranquillizer gun. He put it on the table, pointing the muzzle in her direction.

'What's that for?'

'Just in case you decide to pull any of that Rambo shit,' he said. 'You can take that strap off but leave on the ones on your legs.'

'No need to worry, I promise to be a good little girl.' Darby winked at him and grabbed the clipboard with both hands.

She pretended to read through the pages again as she considered her options. It didn't take her long since she didn't have any.

She picked up the cheap Bic pen from her lap.

'That'a girl.'

She removed the thick stack of sheets from the clipboard and found pages fifteen through twenty. She placed them on the top of the stack.

'What are you doing?' he asked.

'I want to read these carefully, make sure I understand everything since my head's feeling, you know, a little thick.'

'Smart move.'

Darby read through the five pages again as Army Boy watched, his hand still gripping the tranquillizer gun. He kept stealing glances at his watch. When she placed the clipboard on her lap, he watched as she signed her name.

She held up the signed sheet for him to inspect and saw some of that caged heat leave his gaze. She placed the page on the edge of the desk, signed the next one, held it up for him and then placed it on the desk. By the time she'd moved on to the third page, his shoulders had relaxed.

All five pages were now signed and sitting on the desk.

'Can I go now?'

'Not yet,' he said, leaning back in his chair. He kept the gun on the table, pointed at her, and crossed his legs. 'You need to initial the other ones to say you've read them. And don't forget to sign where stated.'

Darby picked up the loose pages from the desk. She shuffled them together and tucked them behind the clipboard resting on her lap.

She read the first page on the stack, initialled it and held it up for him. He nodded and she placed it on top of the desk.

Darby went through the same motion — reading each sheet, signing it, holding it up for inspection, placing it on the desk — for the next twenty or so sheets. Then she reached underneath the clipboard and placed her fingers on the pages resting on her lap — those five lovely pages that spelled out in great detail what would happen if she decided to poke her pretty little nose into this investigation — and pushed them between her thighs.

Her legs pressed together, she picked up the loose collection of pages, shuffled them and then placed them behind the stack resting on the clipboard. She moved it to the side and glanced quickly at her lap, pleased to find that she couldn't see the pages tucked between her thighs.

'I'd like some water,' she said.

'I'll get you a bottle on your way out.'

'You're the one who made the offer. I'd like it now please. And I need to use the bathroom.'

'Then I suggest you hurry up and finish.'

She was about to sign the next sheet when she hesitated.

'There's nothing in here about your returning my tactical equipment.'

'Confiscated,' he said.

'When am I going to get it back?'

'You're not. It's evidence, part of our investigation.'

'Why is the army investigating this case?'

'Domestic terrorism. We're working in conjunction with the FBI and the ATF.'

Which meant they had most likely pushed the New Hampshire detectives to the sidelines. The government hated sharing information among themselves, let alone with state or local police.

'What about my clothes?'

'Incinerated,' he said. 'But you'll be happy to know we managed to salvage your keys and all the plastic stuff in that little leather wallet of yours. The wallet and cash we had to incinerate, but the rest of it we decontaminated, free of charge. Why do you carry a guy's wallet? I thought pretty ladies like yourself carried handbags.'

'I can stick it in my front pocket. What about my phone?'

'Don't know anything about that.'

'You going to reimburse me?'

'Talk to someone in New Hampshire.'

Darby looked up. 'I'm talking to you. I invested a lot of money in that equipment.'

'Take it as a tax write-off.'

'I need to use the bathroom.'

'Finish signing and initialling, and you'll be good to go.'

She did, making a dramatic show of being uncomfortable.

When the last page was signed, she picked up the clipboard. The pages weren't fastened underneath the clip, and when she went to hand the clipboard over, they fell and spilled across the floor.

'Sorry about that,' she said, and tossed the clipboard on the desk. 'I've got to use the bathroom now. I'm bleeding.'

Confused, he examined her arms and face.

'My period,' she said.

Now he looked disgusted. He sprang to his feet and then wheeled her out of the room and across a painfully bright white hall to a bathroom door with a handicap sign. Standing around the corner were two army boys dressed in fatigues, heavy jackets and caps. Both white males, both young and packed with muscle — and name tags. She saw them sewn into their jackets: Anthony and Weeks. The tall one with the doughy face, Weeks, had a submachine gun strapped across his chest.

'They'll take you on out after you're done,' Billy Fitzgerald said.

Then he grinned and winked at her. 'Remember to behave yourself out there, missy.'