David Silva - The Disappeared

“Sick?”

“He’s got a medical condition that could potentially be fatal.”

Mitch, who was rarely surprised by anything in this line of work, found himself surprised by this only because it added another element into a picture that he had thought was already complete. He leaned into the wall, and took a breath from the clear night air. “And how do we fit into this thing? Are we trying to help him or do we need him to help us?”

“Serve it up either way. It doesn’t matter much.”

“Maybe not, but I’d still like to know which one’s closer to the truth.”

“Whichever one helps you sleep better at night. All right?” the man said with a sternness in his voice that displayed his growing impatience. He took out another cigarette, but this one went unlit. Instead, he began to manipulate it, one-handed, through his long, thin fingers as if it were a coin. Down and back. Down and back. “Anything else?”

“You still want him alive?”

“He’s no good to us dead.”

“Same drop off point?”

“Nothing’s changed, Mitch. I just wanted to make sure you understood how far our dicks are hanging out on this one. And like I said, there’s a time element involved here. The kid’s sick. We need to find him before he gets any worse.”

“What about the Knight woman?”

“What about her?”

“You want her alive or dead?”

“I don’t want her at all. Do what you have to do. Got it?”

Mitch nodded without saying anything, and though the night was black it wasn’t so black that he couldn’t see the man across from him nod in return. Fair enough, then. They both understood each other now. He leaned back against the concrete wall, feeling the coolness of the night air against his face.

The man gave him a pat on the shoulder as if to bolster him, then disappeared into the darkness beyond the shrubbery. A moment later Mitch heard the car start up and make its way out of the parking lot.

Everything fell deathly still again.

In the distance he could hear the sound of the water churning at the bottom of the dam. It sounded like the rumble of thunder.

Just what kind of a storm’s brewing here? he wondered.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

The man had been born as Malcolm Winters.

In junior high, he went by the name of Raines, his personal homage to Claude Raines, the Invisible Man . It was fitting not only because of his personal fascination with going unseen and barely noticed, but also because more often than not he was absent from class. And when he wasn’t absent in body, he was absent in mind, which was a thousand miles away, fantasizing bigger than life adventures, narrow escapes from death, and beautiful women. Substitute teachers knew him as the quiet one, who sat in the back and never said a word.

There were no pictures of him in the high school year book.

In college, where he majored in political science, he was just another face in the crowd, dabbling with who he wanted to be, struggling to be who he was. He wrote occasional articles for the university paper, though. Most often under the name of Ted R. O’Bannon, though twice he used the name Red P. Covee, an anagram for “Deep Cover” that amused him endlessly. He rarely went by his birth-given name.

In his senior year, he was approached, and a short time later recruited.

From that moment on, what little left of the Malcolm Winters of old ceased to exist altogether.

In its place came a long procession of new identities: Dexter Clements, a gun runner from New Mexico; Peter J. Thompson, an investment banker from Toledo; Howard Jenkins, a real estate investor who just moved west from Arlington, Virginia; Marshal Witmer, an FBI agent; and a host of other characters, some respectable, some shady, all of them comfortable fits.

Buried even deeper beneath these various identities, he went by the name of D.C., which he sometimes explained as being David Collins, other times as Daniel Clements. In reality, it was neither of these. It was the return of the old college anagram. The initials stood for Deep Cover.

Those who worked with him realized that much of this was just a game.

And that’s what made him so dangerous.

Teri toweled off her wet hair and found herself staring into the bathroom mirror. Dark circles were beginning to show under her eyes. She looked like a woman who had spent the past several days without any sleep. Which was fairly close to the truth, she supposed.

She felt nearly as sluggish as she looked. Though her period wasn’t for another week yet, she thought she had probably started retaining water already. That made for a partial explanation anyway. Closer to the truth, it wasn’t her biology that was taking its toll. It was the stress of the past few days. Being on the run, always looking over your shoulder, not having the slightest clue of who’s after you or why… it didn’t take long for these things to start wearing a person down, and the wear on her was gradually becoming more visible.

How long was this going to go on?

She finished drying her hair, dressed, and wandered back into the bedroom area of the motel room. They were staying at a Motel Six, just off the highway, a couple miles north of town. There was a constant drone of traffic outside. Instead of finding it annoying, however, she had found it somewhat comforting, as if it helped to reassure her that she wasn’t alone in this, that there were, in fact, other people just outside the door.

The boy sat up in bed, chewing on his fingernails, transfixed by an episode of Tales From The Crypt.

“You shouldn’t be watching that,” Teri said.

“Why not?”

“You’re too young, that’s why.”

“But I’m getting older,” he said with an impish grin.

She had tried to explain it to him, the fact that he was aging prematurely, but it had proven to be a difficult concept for an eleven-year-old to grasp. Hell, it had been a difficult concept for the mother of an eleven-year-old to grasp.

“That’s not funny,” she said, more sharply than she intended.

His grin disappeared. “I was just kidding.”

“I know, but it’s not something you should be kidding about.”

“Why not? It’s not happening to you.”

“Don’t talk to me like that.” Teri sat down on the bed next to him, feeling both angry and dispirited. He was right, of course. She wasn’t the one it was happening to, and she would probably never know exactly what it was like to be in his position.

“Look,” she said, recouping her composure. “I know the past couple of days haven’t been much fun. And I know what the doctor said today had to be a little scary for you.”

“It wasn’t scary.”

It should have been, she thought.

“I want to grow up, Mom. I’m eleven already. I’m old enough to watch Tales From The Crypt and stuff like that.” He glanced self-consciously at his hands, which were in his lap. “You used to let me watch Tales From the Darkside . It’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s not the same thing. And you know it isn’t. Besides, that’s not really the issue here.”

“Then what is the issue?”

“It’s your health, Gabe. Once you start aging, there’s no turning back. You’re going to get older much faster than most people.”

“So?”

“So, there’s no way to stop the process.”

“Yeah, but I’ll be an adult, won’t I?”

“You won’t be any bigger, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

“I won’t?”

“No, you won’t.”

“I don’t get it. How can I get older without getting bigger?”