The Soul Collectors

47

Darby turned and saw the army man she had met at the BU Biomedical Lab, Billy Fitzgerald, aka Special Agent Sergey Martynovich. The man had traded his army fatigues for a stylish navy-blue suit.

He came into the room alone but didn't shut the door behind him. She saw a mass of dark suits and ties huddled outside, an unknown sea of faces except for one: the well-groomed man she'd met at the BU Biomedical Lab, the head of security, Neal Keats. The man towered over the other agents and wore an earpiece, his gaze locked on Casey.

Security, she thought. A standard-issued fed, maybe Secret Service.

'Sergey,' Casey said, 'I've decided to let Dr McCormick into the investigation.'

'And Jackson Cooper,' she said.

Casey nodded. 'And Jackson Cooper.'

Sergey didn't so much as glance at her, but she caught the hardness in the man's gaze, a single-minded determination fighting like hell against a mounting horror.

'I have the plane in the air, with the lab people,' he said. 'Everyone we need is on it. Brightest minds and the best equipment.'

'What's going on?' Casey said.

Sergey's voice was calm now, like a doctor steeling himself before handing over a terminal diagnosis to a patient. 'You need to stand here and listen to me. You need to hear all of it.'

'Tell me now.'

'The bastards found the safe house. Taylor — wait, Jack.'

Sergey had blocked Casey's path. Pressed both hands against Casey's chest and pushed like a man keeping a stone statue from toppling over. Casey was a good foot taller than Sergey and three times as wide and doing everything in his power to shove the agent aside and then race through the blockade of suits crowding the doorway. Darby could only think, You're going to need more bodies.

'Taylor and Sarah aren't there,' Sergey said. 'Did you hear me? Taylor and Sarah aren't there.'

'The implants, you said — '

'The satellites locked on to their signals. We got a blip in Connecticut and then the signals vanished, we don't know why yet.

'Now listen to me, Jack. Listen. The plane's going to touch down in Florida at any minute. I've been on the phone with the Sarasota police. They're at the house now, and they promised not to go inside the house until our people arrive. We're going to get the crime scene fresh. The forensic guy you like, Drake? He's going to go into the house. Alone. He's going in with a video camera. We're going to have it linked up to a secured satellite link and you're going to be able to see and hear everything inside the techs' van. We're setting up the equipment right now. We're — '

'Are you out of your goddamn mind? I'm not staying here — '

'Listen to me, Jack. Listen. They're bringing your wife and daughter here. Here. The Boston office received a phone call from a young girl claiming to be your daughter. Came in a couple of hours ago. I heard it. They patched the recording to my phone. It's her voice, Jack. Sarah's. It didn't sound doctored or spliced together. It was Sarah's voice, Jack, I'm certain of it.'

Something — maybe the relief of knowing his wife and daughter were alive, or maybe just the hope of it — made Casey back off. Sergey's hands dropped and fell to his sides. His olive-skinned forehead shone with perspiration.

Casey, to his credit, forced himself to stay in the room. His attention retreated inward, but the fear and worry and panic were all still there, radiating off him like waves of heat.

'Sarah gave an address,' Sergey said. 'It's local. She said you have to go there alone. Just you, no federal agents or Secret Service.'

Darby glanced back to Keats, thinking she was right about him, about his being Secret Service.

Casey said, 'And do what?'

'Wait for her to call. She said she's going to call. At one.'

Darby checked her watch. Quarter to nine.

'I think Taylor's with her,' Sergey said. 'I heard crying in the background. Sounded like a woman.'