“That was an off-the-cuff label,” said Greene. “The formal description is—”
“Save the jargon. Explain it to me. Layman’s terms.”
“Well,” said Greene, “it’s a phenomenon that has been observed in certain cases, particularly with people who have demonstrated artistic abilities coupled with savantism. In short, when Prospero is happy he develops a kind of creative lassitude. He doesn’t draw, he doesn’t write, and he doesn’t even go into the laboratory you made for him in the playroom. In other children freedom from stress sparks creativity. With Prospero there is a paradoxical effect. When he is feeling stressed, or has been in a fight with one of the other boys, or, um, has had, um, difficulties with you, then he is significantly more creative in all aspects. Most notably with his scientific pursuits. That is where his truest passion lies, and I suppose we can theorize that research comforts him. Or, perhaps, it empowers him in times when he feels disempowered. There is a theory that Vincent van Gogh experienced the same kind of thing, hence the nickname of the ‘tortured artist syndrome.’ It’s not an official label, as I said.”
“Okay,” said Bell, “I get it. Put that in writing. All of the clinical support that you can find on it. I want a thorough report and I want it in seventy-two hours.”
He disconnected before Greene could protest or ask questions.
Bell used his heels to move the swing slowly forward and back.
His second call was to Gunther Stark, commandant of the Ballard Military Boarding School in Poland, Maine.
When that call was ended Bell sat on the swing for nearly an hour. Waiting for his son to come home from school. He sat there, slowly moving back and forth on the relic from a childhood that had never really happened.
Bell tried to hate himself for what he was about to do. He tried.
But no matter how far down he dug in the cold, hard soil of his soul, all he ever found was more darkness and more dirt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I told Top and Bunny about Houston.
It hit them like it hit me. Sick as we were, all three of us were ready to lock and load. We sat there, hurting and trembling with impotence as we watched a live news feed on my laptop. I thought it would look bad. It looked worse. Some of the fires were still burning. The power was back on and the sky was filled with emergency helicopters. News choppers, too, even though they were being pushed back beyond a safety zone. God, how many times would we have to look at scenes like this? In America, around the world? How had terrorism become so powerful while we seemed to be dropping to our knees? Or maybe that was the wrong way to put it. How many times could we be forced to our knees and still manage to get back up?
“Funny,” said Bunny bitterly, “but I always thought it would be a nuke. After nine-eleven, after Atlanta and San Francisco, I figured the next step up would be a nuclear detonation on U.S. soil. Something smuggled in by a North Korean team, maybe; or some Russian cell trying to bring back the Soviet Union. Or the Iranians. But I never figured ISIL for being able to hit us this hard at home. Never.”
“Yeah, well, there’s that old thing about assumptions,” grumbled Top. He turned to me. “Did Mr. Church really stand us down for this?”
I nodded. “Right now this is someone else’s job. CIA, State Department, every intelligence agency we have, and Bug’s team. We have Jerry Spencer and Frank Sessa on the ground in Houston doing forensic evaluation, and Harcourt Bolton’s doing deep background for us. We all want someone in the crosshairs, but so far no one from the Islamic Nation has stepped up to own it. The president’s moving assets into play, though. If we can connect the dots to ISIL, then this will change the game.”
“Third Gulf War,” said Top.
“Jesus Christ,” murmured Bunny.
I got up and went into the head for a while because my lower intestines wanted to crawl out of my ass. I sat there on the can and put my face in my hands.
All those people. The fuse lit on another war. Where was the end to it? How could we ever hope to put the pin back into the grenade? Was it always going to be like this?
Bad thoughts for a sick man to have. Bad, bad thoughts.
I went back and dropped onto a seat between Top and Bunny. For a long time we sat there, each of us shivering and sweating. Bunny looked like he was falling asleep. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. Top’s brown skin had faded to a dusty gray. He met my eyes and nodded to me, conveying a truth, making an agreement. Top’s like that. We can say a lot to each other without words.
Aside from the two pilots, we had six team members aboard the plane. Bird Dog and the other equipment handlers, as well as the general crew. All of them were trained as medics, but none of them were doctors. They were clustered together at the far end of the plane, looking at me looking at them. They looked worried, too.
I staggered to my feet and stumbled to the intercom on the bulkhead beside the cockpit door, identified myself, and asked to speak to the pilot.
“I can buzz you in,” he said.
“Negative. Do you have active seals?”
“Yes, sir,” he said crisply.
“Okay, then listen to me, Captain,” I said. “I am initiating a flash-fire protocol. You are hereby ordered to seal the cabin. No one gets in.”
A pause. “Yes, sir,” he said, and despite the typically bland way pilots spoke no matter what was happening, his voice had gone up a full octave.
“I do not want this plane to land in San Diego. They have a biohazard response unit at the Naval Auxiliary Landing Field on San Clemente Island. Get clearance to land us there. But call the Pier and have our big bio-containment module flown over, too. The flight crew will need to be quarantined, too. I don’t know if this thing is contagious but no one is going to take chances.”
“Captain Ledger,” said the pilot, “what’s happening back there?”
I wiped sweat from my eyes. The interior of the plane was filled with too much light and it seemed to be moving sideways.
“I really don’t know,” I said.
INTERLUDE ELEVEN
Oscar Bell did not enjoy writing checks as large as the one that kept Prospero out of jail, or the one that insured that his son would remain as a student and cadet at Ballard. With each zero his pen gouged deeper into the check and left deep impressions on all the checks beneath it.
He tore off the two checks and tossed them onto the desk of the school’s commandant, a withered husk of an old soldier named Gunther Stark.
“He stays,” Bell said flatly. He could afford the repairs, but he’d feel it. He would have to move some holdings around. Ideally he’d find a way to bill Major Sails for it, providing her group accepted his proposal.
Stark glanced down at the checks, inhaled sharply through his nose, and exhaled slowly. Like a man dealing with physical pain.
“Tell me, Mr. Bell,” said the commandant, “have you spoken with your son about this?”
“Of course I have.”
“Did he tell you what he was trying to accomplish?”
“He… may have said something. What of it?”