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  “I’m Andrew.” He tried to smile again. “What’s your…”

  The girl turned around and walked away, disappearing into the shadows beyond the doorway.

  “…name?” Andrew finished, alone again. Sighing, he forked his fingers through his hair, shoving it in a wet, heavy flap back from his face. Well, that went well, he thought.

  * * *

  Santoro returned shortly after that, armed with a flashlight and accompanied by a another woman, older and blonde.

  “…the infirmary’s locked up and with the power out, the key pad won’t work,” she was saying.

  “I’ve got the key,” the blonde replied. Then, as Santoro shined the high-intensity beam directly into Andrew’s face, blinding him, she whistled. “Boy. You weren’t kidding.”

  “About what?” Andrew grimaced, drawing his hand toward his face, trying to shield his eyes from the glare from the other woman, Santoro’s flashlight.

  The blonde laughed. “About you bleeding like a stuck pig.”

  * * *

  It was the smell that had done it, that distinctive, unmistakable smell of medical asepsis. The moment the blonde woman had dug a set a keys from the pocket of her slacks and unlocked a pair of double doors, that odor had wafted out in a sterile huff, taking Andrew back in time eight years and to an Intensive Care ward in Anchorage, Alaska, where his older sister, Beth, had lay dying.

  Hey, Germ.

  He imagined Beth’s voice, saw her face in his mind, weary and weak, her dark eyes ringed by shadows. She’d tried to smile for him the last time he’d seen her alive, her body draped and tangled in a mess of life support tubes and wires. ‘Germ’ had been her pet name for him, an affectionate little dub she’d come up with when he’d been no more than a toddler.

  “Are you alright?”

  Andrew blinked, snapping out of his distant thoughts to find Santoro turned to face him, her brow raised inquisitively. “Fine,” he said, and because his voice sounded strained, he coughed once and tried again. “I’m fine.”

  The clinic looked like a comprehensive hospital ward, with a clerical station in the center, and individual patient rooms framing it in a broad circumference. All appeared empty, dark beyond the thresholds. “Bring him in here,” the blonde called to Santoro as she ducked inside one.

  She introduced herself as Dr. Suzette Montgomery. “That’s the M.D. variety, not Ph.D.,” she assured him. This didn’t eased his anxiety much as she wielded a needle with what turned out to be surgical precision to stitch up his scalp wound, primarily because he thought he smelled the distinct, pungent odor of liquor on her breath.

  “All done,” she said with a smile and a final snip of the suturing thread.

  Andrew brushed his fingertips curiously, cautiously against the neat little column of stitches. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. What say we get you something dry to change into?” Suzette glanced toward Santoro, also still damp and dripping. “You think you could find some extra clothes for Mister… ah…” She glanced at Andrew.

  “Braddock,” he supplied. “Andrew Braddock.”

  Santoro remained rooted in spot for a long moment, a silhouette behind the beam of her flashlight. “Oh, come on,” Suzette said. “It’s not going to take you five minutes. I promise not to let him out of my sight.”

  At last, Santoro offered the lamp, butt-first, to Suzette. “I’ll be right back,” she said. “Keep him here.”

  As she left, thunder rumbled from overhead and outside, low and thrumming through the infirmary walls. Suzette directed the light back into Andrew’s face again and he turned his head away, flinching.

  “Sorry.” The beam moved again as she crossed to a small cabinet against the far wall. “I’m going to draw a couple of blood samples real quick. Do you mind?”

  Andrew shook his head, then held the flashlight, aiming it under her direction, and watched the doctor wrap a slim strap of rubber around his upper arm, just beneath his bicep muscle. Using her fingertips, Suzette tapped and prodded at the inner crook of Andrew’s elbow until a knot of blue veins bulged beneath the surface.

  “So what brings you to these parts, Mister Braddock?” she asked.

  “Andrew,” he said, and she glanced up and smiled. “I’ve been out working in the woods. I’m a forester.”

  Her smile remained affixed, playful and coquettish. “You mean like Smokey the Bear?”

  “No.” For the first time since his arrival, he relaxed enough to laugh. As he had with Santoro, he explained his survey work to Suzette. And, like Santoro, she’d looked at him rather doubtfully.

  “You’re counting trees,” she said. “In the middle of a forest.”

  He laughed again. “Not all of them. Just the hardwood species.”

  “Oh.” With another coy smile, she dragged this syllable out, letting it hang in the air between them.

  “And it’s more of an estimate, not an actual count.”

  “Oh,” she said again, then dropped him a wink. “Better you than me.”

  With an ease so expert, Andrew hardly even felt the pin prick, she inserted the hypodermic syringe and began to fill one of the tubes with a sudden, steady flow of blood.

  “There,” she said once she’d finished. “I’ll get you some acetaminophen. You’re banged up pretty good. You’re going to be sore.”

  Going to be? Andrew was already becoming steadily aware of aches and stiffness in his neck and shoulders, a strained and uncomfortable tension down the length of his spine. It felt like a dwarf with a mallet and Chinese gong was beating out Beethoven’s fifth symphony behind his temples.

  Suzette offered a paper-wrapped packet of Extra-Strength Tylenol caplets. “Thanks,” he murmured, popping the pills into his mouth, letting them lay for the moment, bitter against his tongue.

  “So the good news is you’re going to live.” She turned to a little corner sink and drew a Dixie paper cup from a dispenser mounted on the wall. “The bad news is you’re going to be here, at least for tonight.” With a wink and a laugh, Suzette passed him the cup. “Might as well get comfortable.”

  “Where exactly is here?” he asked, washing the medicine down with a gulp of water.

  “Didn’t Santoro tell you? The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency Appalachian Research Facility.”

  That explains the DARPA, he thought, remembering the sign outside the lobby doors.

  “What kind of research?” he asked.

  She pressed her lips together and mimed turning a key in an invisible lock at the corner of her mouth. “Top secret,” she said. “Hush hush. If you found out, they’d have to kill you.”

  He laughed. This time, she didn’t join him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A loud scream startled Andrew awake. The infirmary was shadow-draped and dark, and for a few fleeting seconds, his mind still more asleep than awake, he had no idea where he was. Then he heard a grumble of thunder from overhead and remembered.

  With a groan, he sat up on the exam table, grimacing at the aching stiffness that had seized his neck and spine. It may have been padded, but the table had been anything but comfortable. Suzette had given him a scratchy wool blanket to cover himself, and his bare arms beneath the cuffs of his short T-shirt sleeves still itched from the coarse, heavy fabric.

  Again, another scream rang out, a shrill sound that seemed to be coming from outside, beyond the cinderblock walls of the compound. He thought of the thing he’d seen on the road out in the woods, the peculiar, human-like creature. It looked like it was screaming at me.

  He swung his legs around, letting his feet settle against the cold tile floor. The electricity had been knocked out by the storm before his arrival with Santoro at the facility and apparently remained so. The door to his room stood partially ajar, but the only light coming through the narrow opening was the flickering, dancing strobe of a flashlight beam.

  Andrew went to the doorway and peered outside. “Who’s there?”

  A blinding g
lare struck his face, the flashlight swung to aim directly in his eyes. “Jesus!” Squinting, Andrew shrank back from the door. He stumbled over his own feet, then sat down hard, knocking over an empty nearby intravenous rack in the process. It clattered noisily to the floor and less than five seconds later, the door to his room flew open wide.

  “Who are you?” he heard a man say from the other side of that dazzling glare, his voice loud and sharp. He heard a distinctive CLACK that he recognized instinctively: the sound of a gun made as it chambered a round.

  Shit.

  “Don’t shoot.” Andrew drew his hand to his face, trying to block the flashlight beam.

  “Who are you?” the man asked again, more sharply this time. “This is a restricted-access installation of the United States Army. Identify yourself.”

  “My name is Andrew Braddock.” Andrew squinted, both hands raised now. “Don’t shoot. A woman brought me here—Santoro. We almost crashed out on the highway.”

  The blinding glare lingered a moment longer, then fell away to pool on the floor. Andrew blinked against residual pinpoints of light still dancing across his gaze. “Thanks.”

  “Get on your feet,” the man with the gun said, coming slowly into clearer view as Andrew’s vision adjusted. Tall and lean, in his early- to mid-fifties, he studied the younger man from across the room with a decided frown, his brows furrowed slightly. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Still not entirely convinced the guy wouldn’t pop a round in him, judging by the fact he’d only lowered the chrome-plated pistol in his hand a halting measure, Andrew obeyed. He yelped in surprise when the man caught him by the arm, spun him smartly around and shoved him face-first into the nearest wall. Keeping Andrew pinned forcibly to the drywall with one hand, he then proceeded to clap and pat the younger man down with the other.

  “I’m not armed,” Andrew said.

  The man said nothing, as thorough and industrious in his work as Saint Nick from the old “Night Before Christmas” poem. His hand slapped against Andrew’s legs clear down to his ankles, then up again. Seeming thus satisfied, he released Andrew and stepped back. Andrew heard another quiet clack as he returned the safety on his pistol and holstered it.

  “Who are you?” he asked, turning warily, keeping his hands raised.

  “My name is Major Mitchell Prendick,” the man replied “I’m the commander of this facility.”

  “I heard someone screaming outside,” Andrew said.

  If this was a point of concern for the Major, he offered no outward indication. Instead, he said, “You may not leave this room, Mister Braddock. Is that understood?”

  Puzzled, Andrew shook his head. “What, you mean until morning?”

  Without another word, Prendick turned and walked back to the doorway.

  “Wait. I need to use your phone,” Andrew said. “A radio. Something. I’ve got to—”

  His voice cut short as Prendick slammed the door behind him. Before the residual bang had faded, Andrew heard a soft but distinctive click from the other side.

  He locked the door.

  Scrambling to his feet, Andrew hurried to the door, grabbing the handle, twisting it impotently between his hands. That son of a bitch, he thought. He locked me in here!

  “Hey!” Balling his hand into a fist, he beat loudly against the wood. “Let me out. Hey!”

  But the door remained locked and Prendick didn’t reply. When another scream came from outside, filtering through the walls, Andrew knew he wouldn’t get any more sleep that night. Drawing the itchy blanket around his shoulders again, he sat down in the dark, huddled in a corner, his knees drawn toward his chest while he waited for the dawn.

  What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  * * *

  He hadn’t meant to fall asleep sitting on the floor in the corner of the exam room. When the fluorescent fixtures overhead flickered once, then twice, flooding the room with bright, sudden light, and the central air vents suddenly rattled and whistled into abrupt life, his eyes flew wide and he jerked in start.

  “What the—” he gasped, disoriented and bewildered. Then, realizing where he was, he sighed, forking his fingers through the heavy crown of his hair. Shoving the blanket aside, he stumbled to his feet. Not only did his muscles feel stiff and sore, aching from his crash the night before, but now he discovered, he’d developed uncomfortable, even painful cricks in his hips, neck and shoulders.

  Terrific, he thought, wincing as he tried to stretch those tight places loose once more.

  He heard a soft tap at the exam room door, then a woman’s voice, hesitant and polite called out: “Mister Braddock?”

  “I’m awake,” he said, and because his voice sounded little more than a hoarse croak, he coughed into his fist and tried again. “It’s okay. I’m awake.”

  Opening the door more, the blonde doctor poked her head inside. “Good morning, sunshine,” she said, extending her hand in introduction. “We met last night.”

  “Dr. Montgomery. I remember.” Andrew accepted the shake and was surprised by the confident strength in her grip as she folded her slim, cool fingers against his. With a glance at the ceiling, the fluorescent lights, he said, “The power’s back on.”

  “Yeah, thank God.” She laughed. “Lightning apparently hit the main generator during the storm but they got it fixed. Good thing. This dump’s boring enough even with the lights working. I can’t imagine being stuck out here without electricity.”

  “Are you with the Army?”

  She laughed again. “God, no. I work for Dr. Moore. He’s a geneticist and molecular biologist conducting research here. This is his facility.”

  “I thought it was Major What’s-His-Name’s,” Andrew said, thinking of the tall man from the night before.

  Suzette laughed. “Who? Prendick? I take it you’ve met.”

  “You could say that.” Andrew told her about their impromptu introduction and even more off the cuff frisking.

  “Oh, jeez.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry about that. I know he seemed a little…high strung, but really, he’s alright. The storm just had him a little kookier than usual, that’s all.”

  “He locked me in here.”

  “Really?” Suzette raised her brow. “He probably just didn’t want you wandering around, what with the lights out and all. Anyway, I work with Dr. Moore’s daughter. She’s autistic. And speaking of which…” She checked her wrist watch. “It’s about time for her breakfast.” Glancing up, she smiled coyly. “Care to join us?”

  His stomach warbled at the mention, making him realize he’d missed supper the night before. “Thanks. That sounds terrific.”

  Like the walkie-talkie, Andrew’s iPhone had managed to somehow survive the crash relatively unscathed. As he and Suzette crossed the foyer together, he selected the phone function and sifted through his contacts to find Ted McGillis’ number.

  “You’re not going to get through,” Suzette said.

  He tried anyway, but only got the droning beep-beep-beep that meant he had no network connection, no cellular tower within range. He tried to open his internet browser with likewise results. Ditto for the Talkabout.

  “It’s the mountains,” Suzette said. “I haven’t been able to call in or out on my cell since I got here.”

  “How long has that been?” Andrew asked.

  “Six weeks,” she replied, and he bit back a groan.

  Terrific, he thought. That’s just great.

  “Is there a pay phone or something I can use instead, then?” he asked. “I need to call in to my office, try to get hold of…” His voice faded as Suzette shook her head.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Sounds like the storm took out the relay satellite, too, from the way Prendick was talking.”

  “Any idea how long until it’s fixed?”

  “Around here? Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Terrific, he thought again. This just keeps getting better and better.

  By night, it ha
d been quiet and still inside the main building, but by day, it had sprang into life, a veritable hive of activity, with uniformed soldiers moving this way and that, all at brisk and purposeful paces. Together they crossed the large lobby area Andrew had seen upon his arrival.

  He paused, looking out a glass door opposite the main entrance through which Santoro had brought him the night before. It opened out onto a small stone patio, with a wide, neatly manicured courtyard lawn beyond. Past this, half-hidden among the trees, he could see a building, one-story and squat, with a featureless, white-stone façade that reminded him of a mausoleum face. Even from his distance, he could see armed soldiers marking a staggered perimeter around it.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  Suzette followed his gaze. “Dr. Moore’s lab.”

  “Why the guards?”

  He glanced back at her and she winked. “Top secret,” she told him, hooking her fingers into quotes again. “Hush-hush.”

  “They’d have to kill me if I found out?”

  Again, she didn’t laugh. “You got it.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  My Soul. I summon to the winding ancient stair;

  Set all your mind upon the steep ascent

  Suzette lived with Dr. Moore and his eight-year-old daughter Alice in a large apartment that encompassed the entire west wing and second floor of the building. The entrance was at the top of a steep flight of stairs, and as she led him up, these words, this fleeting, half-forgotten stanza of poetry came to mind. He’d learned it his freshman year of college, in an English literature class where he’d met Lila Meyer.

  “William Butler Yeats. Arguably one of the greatest poets of this or any other century.” She’d stood in front of the podium, looking up at the stadium-styled seating arrangement, hundreds of students crammed into creaking, uncomfortable wooden seats. Her shoulder-length chestnut hair had framed her face in what would soon become a familiar tumble of haphazard curls. She’d smiled as she’d recited The Winding Stair, her mouth soft and sensuously full, her cheeks high and elegant, her hazel eyes sharp. It had occurred to him in his youthful naiveté that she was very beautiful.