Chris Mooney - The Soul Collectors

'I… well, I would assume so.'

'I want you to connect me to him.'

'I can't transfer your call. We don't have that sort of equipment.'

'Then bring a phone to me.'

'A cell phone won't work in here.'

'Then connect a landline.'

'I'm afraid your room isn't equipped. The phone you're speaking on right now is wired to come straight to the security console.'

'Fine. Have someone take me to a phone.'

'I'm sorry, but I can't do that until we know you're not infected.'

Darby felt an itch spark deep inside her head, right around the place where her spine connected to her brain stem. She squeezed the receiver, wanting to crush it.

'You and I both know I'm not infected.'

'These tests take time, Miss McCormick. We still don't know what you were exposed to, and until we do we need to monitor — '

'Who's your second in command?'

'Second in command? I don't understand what — '

'The army's running this place, right?'

No answer.

'I want to speak to someone in charge,' Darby said. 'Now.'

'I'll forward your request, but, as you already know, we're not allowed to speak to you about the New Hampshire incident. Maybe you should ask the FBI. I can call them for you.'

Darby had already spoken to the two agents sent over from the Boston office, a pair of Irish boys named Connolly and Kelly. They stood in the white-tiled room beyond the Plexiglas barrier, writing down her statement while asking questions through a two-way speaker. They claimed to have no knowledge of the investigation happening up north, in the Granite State, and promised to send along someone to answer her questions.

That was four days ago. Maybe five, it was hard to remember.

Darby switched the phone to her other ear. 'What's your name?'

'Howard.'

'And what do you do here, Howie?'

'Me?' He chuckled. 'I'm just a lowly medical technician.'

'Okay, Howie, I want you to pass along a message. The next person who enters my room is going to be carrying my medical file and all of my blood work results. Said person is going to hand those to me and then sit down and answer my questions — all of my questions, including everything that's happening in New Hampshire. If this doesn't happen, Howie, not only will this person not be getting any more of my blood, he — or she — will have to crawl out of here. Do you understand?'

'I understand your frustration — I honestly do — but you need to — '

'Do we have an understanding, Howie?'

'I'll pass your message along. Now, about lunch, would you like — '

Darby hung up and went back to lying on her bed, wondering just how long she'd have to wait until someone came to speak to her.

And what if they can't or won't answer your questions? What are you going to do?

Then she'd have to deliver on her promise.

Her thoughts shifted to the man she had cuffed to a tree in the woods — the thing with the veiny egg-white skin, missing teeth and tongue. There was no way he could have got loose by himself. Someone had cut him loose, either one of his buddies who had been near by, watching; or one of Glick's hazmat people. Maybe even Glick himself.

And that black plastic device I found sewn into his back… just what the hell was that thing? Some sort of tracking device?

It was maddening to wonder.

Now she saw the man claiming to be Charlie. Saw his mask of dried human skin with its cut-out eyeholes and mouth, the sutures attached to horribly scarred but healthy skin belonging not to a man claiming to be Charlie Rizzo but to Charlie Rizzo himself, the boy born with missing nipples who had disappeared all those years ago and who now, seemingly for no reason, had reappeared back in his family's house to hold them hostage.

No, there was a reason.

Charlie — and he was Charlie Rizzo, she could feel it deep in her gut — Charlie had called 911 and requested SWAT and a bulletproof vehicle. He dumped a body in the shrubs, and when she asked him who that man was, he said, I'm hoping you'll find out. That's why I gave him to you. Charlie wanted her to go inside the house alone so she could bear witness to his father's confession. What had Charlie said to his father? Here it was: I want you to tell Dr McCormick why I'm here… Don't be shy, Daddy. Start with the day I was abducted.

Mark Rizzo never explained — no, that wasn't true, he said, This thing is not my son. She took down Charlie and tear gas flooded the bedroom and then the people dressed as SWAT officers stormed inside the house. They hadn't come for Charlie; they killed him along with the rest of his family.

But not the father. They took Mark Rizzo… where? To the same place Charlie had been living all those years? And why had they allowed Charlie to remain alive all that time? What was the purpose?

You're assuming there is a purpose.

Maybe not a purpose, but there was a reason.

As it turned out, Darby didn't have to wait long. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the steel airtight door hissing open.

The person standing outside her Plexiglas door, dressed head to toe in a thick white biohazard suit, wore the same accoutrements everyone else did when they came into her room: gloves that ran up to the elbows; an M95 gas mask that covered the face, ran over one shoulder and down the spine, and connected to a lithium-battery air purifier/respirator. It rested against the small of the person's back, on a belt.

At this distance, Darby couldn't see a face through the clear visor but she suspected her latest visitor was a man, based on the height and width of the shoulders. The man waved an ID card across the keycard reader, then punched in a code. A stainless-steel tray rested against his hip and was held in place by the other gloved hand. She saw a stethoscope, glass vials, empty tubes and needles covered by plastic tips.

A slight whine as the security cameras turned to the man entering her room. Darby crossed her hands behind her head and watched as he lumbered across like an astronaut navigating the terrain of a strange planet.

He placed the tray on the foot of her bed. The cameras' whine disappeared, replaced by silence. She looked at his respirator pack.

'How are you feeling this morning, Miss McCormick?'

The man had an effeminate voice and she detected a slight lisp. She looked up at his clear visor and saw the dark blue eyes underneath thick eyebrows that formed one big hairy caterpillar.

'Have we met?'

'No,' he said, uncapping the plastic tip of a needle. 'Any problems breathing?'

'Are you a doctor?'

'I am. Tell me about your breathing. Have you been experiencing any — '

'Do you have a name?'

'Dr Jerkins.'

'Like the hand lotion.'

'Yes. Now please, about your breathing.'

'My breathing is fine. My vision is fine. No nausea.'

'What about problems swallowing?'

'Now that you mention it, yes.'

He looked up from the tray, his eyes bright with interest. The human guinea pig had a symptom.

'I'm having trouble swallowing this bullshit about you people not knowing what I was exposed to,' Darby said calmly. It irritated her, having to maintain this calm pleasantness. She forced a smile, then added calmly: 'And please don't feed me the line about how you're still running tests. You've been drawing blood for days and you've refused to tell me the name of this sedative you keep injecting into my system. My head feels like it's gone a few rounds with Chris Brown.'

'Chris Brown?'

'Rihanna's boyfriend. You know, the pop singer. He beat the shit out of her. It was all over the news.'

'I'm afraid I missed it. In any case, that lethargy you're feeling is one of the side effects from the sedative we gave you to manage the pain from your fractured ribs, and to make sure you didn't go into respiratory distress.'