The Soul Collectors

33

Considering that she was going to a place that housed life-threatening bacteria and viruses, Darby expected to find a huge building cordoned off by security gates, maybe armed guards roaming the perimeter or posted near or just behind the front doors. But the BU Biomedical Lab had been designed so it would blend in with the rest of the South End neighbourhood. Made entirely of brick, it sat on a corner of Albany, just another bland, non-descript building among the other industrial-type complexes that ran printing presses and offered legal services. Two exceptions: no sign or lettering advertising what the building was; and no windows on either the ground or first floors. Plenty of windows on floors two through six, some of them lit.

The stretches of kerb in the front and to the right of the building were bare of vehicles. Could be the hour; it was twenty minutes shy of 5:00 a.m., the sky beginning to break with a milky-grey, pre-dawn gloom. Most of Albany had plenty of available parking spaces. Darby drove to the front, flipped up the helmet's visor and found posted signs that prohibited parking. Violators would be immediately asked to move or risk being arrested. To enforce the threat, a pair of highly visible security cameras had been mounted above the front doors. One swept the street in front while the other watched the corner.

She suspected there were more cameras watching the perimeters. Given what was stored in there, the cameras had to have manual operators. There would be a security room where either rent-a-cops or army guys watched the streets day and night.

Darby took a right and drove around the corner. This side of the building had nothing but brick. No windows or doors. Security cameras observed the street. One whisked past her and, instead of completing its rotation, turned back to her. She drove to the end of the road, hooked another right and then stopped to look at the back. She saw a big steel door for a parking garage.

She drove to the next block, turned right again and again saw that the building's last side was exactly like the others, a fortress of brick.

A white, middle-aged man stood on the main street's corner sidewalk, smiling pleasantly and waving for her to come closer.

Security, she thought. She pulled up against the kerb and saw that this guy wasn't a hired hand from some rinky-dink security outfit. He made good money, and he had made a significant investment in his clothes: a simple dark suit with a notch lapel; a light blue shirt with a semi-spread collar that flattered his silver hair and complexion; and a dark, solid aubergine-coloured tie with a perfect four-in-hand knot. He looked like a news anchor ready for primetime.

She killed the engine.

'Good morning, Miss McCormick.' A soft, Southern accent. Texas, she thought. 'I'm Neal Keats, head of security.'

He extended his hand.

She left it hanging there. He withdrew it and said, 'Follow me inside. You can leave your bike here.'

'This is a tow-zone.'

'Only if we make the call. Besides, you won't be gone long. This will take only a moment.'

'What will take a moment?'

'You're here to get some of your questions answered, correct?'

'So is Sergeant-Major Glick finally available?'

'I'm afraid he's still detained, as is Mr Fitzgerald. But we have someone who is willing to talk to you.'

He smiled. He had invested a lot of money in his teeth. Perfect white caps. She didn't care for his greasy politician's smile or his calm voice and demeanour.

'Shall we head in?'

'Yes,' Darby said, matching his smile. 'We shall.'

Neal Keats, ever the Southern gentleman, held open the front door for her. She opened the second door herself and stepped into a bland-looking lobby with bare white walls and a tan linoleum floor. Dimmed halogen ceiling lights hung over an empty front desk made of light blonde oak and constructed in a podium-like fashion similar to the one in the Boston Police Department's lobby.

Standing to the right of the hall were two white men dressed in black suits. Big guys with thick necks and wrists and bodies like linebackers'. The sort of men you imagined could run through brick walls. The sort of men you wanted around for protection. Both stood with their hands behind their back, serious 'don't screw with us' expressions etched on their weathered faces. Their buttoned-up suit jackets had been taken out to accommodate their wide chests and broad shoulders. She didn't detect a bulge along their hips. If they were armed, they were wearing shoulder holsters.

Keats whisked past her. The two men didn't move. She followed Keats, and when she passed the two suits, they fell into step behind her.

It was a short walk. Keats stopped in front of an open white door and motioned for her to go in first. She did, entering a long, wide room strategically designed to hold the bulky security consoles and other surveillance and monitoring equipment. Banks of security consoles with dozens and dozens of closed-circuit TV screens trained on the building's perimeters and on the halls inside the lab took up the entire front wall. Everywhere she looked she saw glowing screens and flashing lights.

The crew manning the stations, a collection of men of various ages, all wearing shirt and tie, didn't turn to look at her. The small office to her immediate left — LAN MANAGEMENT, according to the plate hanging on the door — was empty.

'This way, Miss McCormick.'

She turned and saw Keats standing off to her right, motioning to another doorway, this one leading into a small, cluttered office with pressboard furniture. He let her go in first, then followed and pointed to a pair of cheap plastic chairs set up in front of a desk. He moved behind it but didn't sit.

'Please, have a seat.'

He waited for her to sit. Then he did and picked up the desk phone. A single light blinked on the unit. He pressed a button and the light stopped blinking.

Keats handed the phone to her.