Dean Koontz - Dragonfly

As Altmüller perched on the edge of the couch, the third agent put down the attaché case which he had been carrying and opened it on the coffee table. He took from it a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a cotton pad, a small vial of yellowish serum, and a hypodermic syringe wrapped in a sterilized plastic envelope.

Altmüller's eyes widened. “What's this?”

With that reassuring manner common to the best and worst medical doctors, Buell said, “Mr. Altmüller, you really have nothing at all to worry about. I'm certain you can understand that in a matter like this, with the national security hanging by a thread, extraordinary measures are required.”

“What are you talking about? What the fuck are you talking about? What could I have to do with the national security?”

“In time, Mr. Altmüller. I'll explain in time.”

Altmüller stood up. “Explain now.”

“In a situation like this, when the future of our country is in doubt, we can take no chances,” Buell said. “We must—”

“You're talking nonsense,” Altmüller said. “I'm not a spy. I'm a nobody. There's nothing I know that—”

“With so much at stake,” Buell said, raising his voice slightly, “we must be absolutely sure that you're telling the truth.”

“What is that stuff?” Altmüller asked, nodding at the vial. “Is it hyoscine? Amytal? Pentothal?”

“Oh, no,” Buell said. “In the agency we are able to take advantage of all the newest discoveries, the latest drugs. This is much more effective than Pentothal.”

The third agent broke open the plastic envelope and took out the syringe. He soaked the cotton pad in alcohol and wiped off the membrane that capped the vial. He popped the needle through the membrane and drew yellow fluid into the syringe.

“You need a warrant,” Altmüller said belatedly.

“Relax,” Buell said.

“The CIA doesn't even have domestic jurisdiction.”

“Relax.”

His hairline suddenly beaded with perspiration, Altmüller took a step toward the agent who held the needle.

“Sit down,” Buell said quietly, coldly.

Numbed by confusion and weakened by fear, Alt-müller stared at the silenced pistol that had appeared almost magically in Buell's right hand.

“Sit down.”

“No.”

“Don't forget your fiancée in the kitchen.”

Altmüller glared at him.

“We only want to ask you some questions.”

Opening his mouth and then closing it without speaking, Altmüller sat down.

“Roll up your sleeve,” Buell said.

Altmüller made no move to obey.

Raising the pistol, Buell put a bullet in the back of the couch, two inches from the big man's shoulder.

Shaken, Altmüller rolled up his sleeve.

The other agent took a length of rubber tubing from the attaché case and tied it tightly around Altmüller's biceps. In seconds the dark vein bulged out of the smooth skin just above the crook of the arm. The agent picked up the syringe, punched the needle through the vein, pulled it back slightly, drew blood into the syringe where the yellow fluid turned orange, then shot the drug into Altmüller's body.

As the smaller agent began to put away the medical equipment, Altmüller looked at Buell and said, “Ask your questions and get the hell out of here.”

“The drug won't take effect for another minute or so,” Buell said, still covering the big man with the pistol.

A minute later Altmüller's eyelids drooped. His mouth sagged partway open. He leaned back against the couch and let his hands fall, palms up, at his sides. His voice was weak, distant: “Oh… Jesus… Christ!”

Buell put away his pistol and took a sheet of paper from his wallet. It was a list of forty names. He took a felt-tip pen from his shirt pocket, uncapped it, and held it next to the first name on the list. Standing over Altmüller, he said, “Do you know a federal marshal named Frank Jaekal?”

Glassy-eyed, Altmüller did not respond.

Buell asked the same question again, in a firmer, louder voice this time.

“No,” Altmüller said weakly.

“Do you know a federal marshal named Alan Coffey?”

“No.”

“Do you know a federal marshal named Michael Morgan?”

“Yes.”

Buell drew a line through that name.

On the couch Altmüller began to twitch uncontrollably.

“Better hurry along,” the other agent told Buell.

Buell read out the remaining thirty-seven names, one at a time, until he had finished the list. Fourteen of the forty names were familiar to Altmüller. Calling the names at random, Buell went through the list a second time in order to double-check it, and he found Altmüller's responses did not change.

“It's really hitting him now,” the smaller agent said.

Altmüller had fallen on his side on the couch. His eyes were wide and sightless. Clear fluid bubbled at his nostrils. He mumbled and murmured and chewed at his tongue. His body snapped and twisted like a flag in the wind.

“It's a damned good drug,” the smaller agent said, “except for the side effects.”

Altmüller fell off the couch and thrashed violently on the floor. His tongue was bleeding, and his chin was painted red.

“Will these convulsions kill him?” Buell asked. He watched the big man roll and twist; he was intensely interested.

“No,” the smaller agent said. “Unless he was under a doctor's care, he might injure himself severely. But the drug isn't deadly.”

“I see.”

“But that's academic, of course.”

“Yes, of course,” Buell said. He drew his pistol and shot Altmüller twice. He put the gun away.

“Lets wrap him in that rag rug,” the other agent said.

When they had the corpse rolled into a neat cocoon, they carried it out to the kitchen.

Connie Eaton was sitting on a straight-backed chair, a strip of cloth adhesive tape over her mouth. Her wrists were handcuffed behind her back. She didn't struggle when she realized what was in the rug. She didn't try to scream, and she didn't faint. Instead, all the life drained out of her pretty eyes; she stared ahead as if she were mesmerized, catatonic.

The agent who wore eyeglasses said, “No need to carry him down to the basement. I found a better place to put him.” He led them across the room to a food freezer that stood in an alcove beside the back door. The freezer was practically empty. “Good?”

“Perfect,” Buell said.

They dumped Altmüller's body into the frosted bin and were just closing the freezer when the telephone rang.

“Probably for us,” Buell said. He went to the wall phone by the refrigerator, picked up the receiver, and “Hello?”

“Buell?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is the Spokesman.”

“Yes, sir.” He explained how things had gone with Altmüller.

The Spokesman said, “Too bad about the woman.”

“Yes, it is.”

“But why haven't you disposed of her too?”

“She must have a family.”

“She does,” the Spokesman said.

“And if she disappears for a few days, they'll have the police looking for her. They're bound to come to Altmüller.”

“Yes. You're right. What will you do? Take her somewhere and make it look like an accident?”

“That would be best,” Buell said. “Does she live alone?”

“According to my information, she does. I see what you have in mind. You can take her back to her apartment and make it look like the work of a burglar.”

“Yes, sir. Do you know her address?”

The Spokesman gave it to him. “But I have another job for you, first. There's a federal marshal named William Peyser. Lives near Maryland Park. Not far from where you are now.” He gave Buell the exact address. “Get to Peyser as soon as you possibly can and run him through the Altmüller program.”