He laid out three sheets of paper on the coffee table as he spoke, what looked like photocopies of newspa-per clippings, and a simple diagram. “Shortly after I talked to the home office, I received a visit from a stranger, a man who claimed to be a friend of the S.T.A.R.S.... he told me his name was Trent, and gave me these.”
“Trent!” Jill broke in excitedly. She turned to Chris, her eyes wide, and Chris felt his heart skip a beat. He’d almost forgotten about their mysterious benefactor.
The guy who told Jill to watch out for traitors, who told Brad where to pick us up. . . .
David stared at Jill, his expression puzzled. “You know him?”
“Just before we went in to rescue the Bravos, a man named Trent gave me some information about the Spencer estate, and warned me about Wesker,” Jill said. “He was quite a piece of work, real shady—he didn’t give anything away, you know? But he knew what was going on with Umbrella, and what he did tell me all panned out.”
Barry nodded. “And Brad Vickers said that Trent called in the estate’s coordinates right after Wesker activated the triggering system. If he hadn’t radioed, we woulda blown up with the rest of the mansion.” Chris suddenly realized that he had a serious head-ache brewing as they all gathered around Barry’s coffee table, staring down at the papers. The S.T.A.R.S. were working for Umbrella, there was another T-Virus facility operating in Maine—and now Trent again, popping up like some cryptic fairy godmother, his motives impossible to guess at. It was like some kind of a game, the stakes all or nothing as they struggled to get to the bottom of Umbrella’s conspiracy.
And we have no choice but to play—but whose game are we playing? And what do we risk losing if we fail? Chris shot an unhappy glance at Rebecca, thinking again of his kid sister and wishing, not for the first time, that they’d never heard of Umbrella. David watched them study the information that Trent had given him, somehow not surprised that the enigmatic stranger had contacted the S.T.A.R.S. be-fore. The man had been a professional, though at what, precisely, David couldn’t imagine. Why would he want to help us fight Umbrella?
What’s in it for him?
David thought back to the brief encounter he’d had only five days ago, searching his memory for some
additional clues, something he’d missed. He’d arrived home late from work, and it had been raining......
pouring, a thundering summer storm that beat at the windows and masked the sound of his gentle knocking....
The Exeter S.T.A.R.S. had enjoyed an easy sum-mer, more paperwork than action. The Bravos had taken off for a criminal profiling seminar in New Hampshire, and David had been entertaining thoughts of packing a bag and attending the final days—until he’d received Barry’s call, followed by his first hint from
the home office that something was wrong.
He’d spent the next day calling a few of his branch contacts with discreet questions and digging through files on Umbrella, not making it home until almost midnight. The driving rain had ushered him into his cold, dark house, the atmosphere matching his mood perfectly. He’d poured a scotch and collapsed on the couch, his head spinning from the implications of what he’d learned—that either his old friend Barry was lying or that the AD for the S.T.A.R.S. was. . .. The rapping at his door was so soft that he missed it at first, the steady rain hammering on the roof cover-ing the sound. Then it grew louder.
Frowning, David looked at his watch and walked slowly to the door, wondering who the hell came calling in the middle of the night. He lived alone and had no family; it had to be work, or maybe someone with car trouble. . . .
He cracked the door open—and saw a man in a black trench coat standing on his porch, streams of water running down his lined face.
The stranger smiled, an open, friendly expression, his eyes glittering bright with humor. “David Trapp?” David took in the man at a glance. Tall and thin, maybe a few years past David’s age, say forty-two or forty-three. His dark hair was plastered to his skull by the rain, and he held a large manila envelope in one gloved hand.
“Yes?”
The man grinned wider. “My name is Trent, and this is for you.”
He held out the damp envelope and David glanced at it warily, not sure if he should take it. Mr. Trent didn’t seem dangerous, or at least not threatening . .. but he was still a stranger, and David preferred to know the people he accepted gifts from. “Do I know you?” David asked.
Trent shook his head, his smile unwavering. “No. But I know you, Mr. Trapp. And I also know what you’re about to go up against. Believe me, you’re going to need all the help you can get.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Perhaps you have me confused with someone else—“ Trent’s smile faded as he extended the envelope, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “Mr. Trapp, it’s raining. And this is for you.”
Confused and not a little irritated, David opened the door wider to accept the envelope. As soon as he grasped it, Trent turned and started to walk away.
“Hold on a moment—“
Trent ignored him, disappearing into the rain-drenched shadows around the side of the house. David stood in the doorway uncertainly, holding the damp paper and staring into the pouring darkness for another minute before going back inside. Once he’d studied the contents, he wished he’d gone after Trent—but by then, of course, it was too late. Too late and only too obvious what he’d meant. He knew about Umbrella and the S.T.A.R.S.—but who does he work for? And why did he choose to contact me?
Jill and Rebecca were studying the map while Barry and Chris worked through the copied newspaper articles. There were four of them, all recent, all centered around the tiny coastal town of Caliban Cove, Maine. Three of them concerned the disappear-ances of local fishermen, all presumed dead. The fourth was a rather humorous piece about the “ghosts” that haunted the cove; it seemed that several townspeople had heard strange sounds floating across the waters late at night, described as “the cries of
the damned.” The writer of the article had laughingly suggested that the witnesses to the phenomena should probably stop drinking their mouthwash before bed. Funny. Unless you know what we know about Um-brella.
The map was of the stretch of coast just south of the small town, an aerial sketch of the cove itself.
David had uncovered a few facts about the area on a visit to Exeter’s library, uncomfortable using the S.T.A.R.S. computer after Barry’s call. The rather isolated stretch had been privately owned for several years, bought up by an anonymous group. There was a defunct lighthouse on the northern rim of the inlet, sitting atop a cliff that was supposedly riddled with sea caves.
Trent’s map showed several structures behind and below the lighthouse, leading down to a small pier on the southern tip of the open crescent. There was a notched border that ran the length of the cove on the inland side, presumably a fence. CALIBAN COVE was written across the top in bold letters. In smaller type just beneath were the words UMB. RESEARCH AND TESTING.
The third piece of paper that Trent had given him was the one that David didn’t understand; there was a short list of names at the top, seven in alclass="underline"
LYLE AMMON, ALAN KINNESON, TOM ATHENS, LOUIS THURMAN, NICOLAS GRIFFITH, WILLIAM BIRKIN, TIFFANY CHIN.
Just under it was a somewhat poetic list of sorts, set into the center of the page in curling font. Jill had picked it up again and was reading it carefully. She looked up at David, a half-smile on her face.
“No question that we’ve got the same Trent here.