Chris Mooney - The Soul Collectors

'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.

Darby took the phone and said, 'With whom am I speaking?'

'Are you with Mr Keats right now?'

The voice on the other end of the line belonged to Leland Pratt. Even at this early morning hour, his voice sounded crystal clear. At the moment he was doing a good job of containing his anger, but it was there, waiting to explode.

'Darby?'

She didn't answer, too interested in Keats. He sat with his hands folded on his lap, staring at her from across the wide, messy desk. That greasy smile of his had disappeared, but he was obviously enjoying the show he had just arranged. His eyes were dangerously bright, as if he were containing himself, waiting for someone to give him the order to pounce.

'Yesterday evening, the United States Army came to my home and personally delivered copies of documents that you signed,' Leland said. 'Do you know the documents I'm referring to?'

'I do. Have you looked through them?'

'I have. The question is, have you?'

'Anything missing?'

'Darby, if you value any sort of career opportunity in law enforcement, I suggest you go with the two men Mr Keats has there with him. They'll escort you back to your home. Shower and dress in your Sunday best, understand? We have an early-morning meeting with Robert Chambers, the interim police commissioner.'

'What's the occasion?'

'You know full well what he wants to discuss with you.'

'The conditions of my re-employment or this business that took place in New Hampshire? Which is it?'

'I don't think you fully see the implications of your current situation,' he said, straining to remain calm.

She stood.

'And I'm through negotiating with you,' Leland said. 'If you choose not to work for me, that is, of course, your decision. But if you want — '

Darby pulled the phone away from her ear and, with her eyes on Keats, reached across the desk to hang it up. She walked around to the other side of the desk and sat on the edge, close to Keats, her legs touching his thigh.

She crossed her arms over her chest. 'How long have you been with the Secret Service?'

'Excuse me?'

She had to hand it to the guy: he had a great poker face. No look of surprise, he just cocked his head to the side, actually looking confused.

'The small hole in the left lapel of your suit jacket,' she said. 'You and the two linebackers guarding the doorway so nobody will disturb us? You all have the same small hole in the same spot. That's where you guys wear your SS high-level clearance pin or the other one when you're on protection detail, to let everyone know you're Secret Service.'

Keats chuckled, shaking his head. 'You have quite an imagination.'

'I don't think you're protecting me. If you were, you would have been a lot smoother than the two bozos parked at the end of my street. My guess is you're using me, watching me to see if I can draw these guys out.'

'What guys?'

'The ones who blew up the Rizzo house with dynamite,' she said. 'The ones I met tonight at the blast site.'

Keats's poker face didn't change. She let him chew on the silence, hoping he'd take the bait.

'I'm the head of security here, Miss McCormick. Sorry to disappoint you.'

'Okay, I'll play along. Who arranged the phone call with my former boss?'

'Sergeant-Major Glick. I'm just following his orders.'

'So let me talk to him.'

'He's unavailable.'

'When will he be available?'

'I wouldn't know. Maybe you should call his secretary.'

'Okay, let's head up to his office. I know it's early, but I don't mind waiting. Now that I'm unemployed, I can wait all day.'

'Let me ask you a question. What's your stake in all of this? Why not take your old job back?'

Because I know you're just another lying federal asshole. Because I know you're not looking for Mark Rizzo. Because I made a promise to the kid who had been abducted and turned into some sort of goddamn circus freak.

Darby didn't answer.

'Well,' he said, slapping his knees. 'My job here is done. Nice meeting you, Miss McCormick.'

He started to get up. Darby put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back into his chair.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw one of the linebackers move to the office doorway.

'Prove me wrong,' she said to Keats.

'About what?'

'That you're not Secret Service. Empty out all of your pockets and let me see what you're carrying.'

Keats stared at her. Hard.

'Let's check out your wrists,' she said, 'see if we can find a microphone.'

She reached forward and clutched his left wrist, about to turn it around when Keats grabbed her forearm. The fabric of his suit jacket had moved and she caught the wink of the butt-end of a gun sitting inside a shoulder holster.

'I've been a gentleman up until now,' he said. 'But you're invading my personal space.'

'Get used to it.' Darby let go her grip and stood. 'I'll let myself out. I'll be seeing you around, I'm sure.'