Frank Harper grew visibly fatigued as his story approached the present. He spoke continuously, stopping once to make more coffee and pausing only to spell a name, a word, or to let Dan Gabriel catch up with his notes.
"I was thrilled at first," Harper had begun. "Suddenly I had the blessings of the Army and the resources of the U.S. government behind my quest to look inside the heads of human beings and look for the thing which really separates us from the rest of God's creatures. I didn't pay attention to the fabric of deceit being woven around me."
Harper studied the empty bottom of his mug. "Now, the direct result of my life's efforts means the military will begin widespread deployment of Xantaeus next week, disguised as transdermal patches for vitamins and micronutrients."
"But I thought- In the briefing, Wim Baaker said Xantaeus would be deployed in the next year or two," Gabriel stuttered.
"Baaker doesn't know the whole story. The president does not know, and maybe three people at the Pentagon are truly aware."
"What about the adverse side effects?"
"Like I mentioned, about one percent of the people taking the drug never fully recover."
"That would produce thousands of dangerous killers."
"Completely psychopathic killers," Harper said. "People with no compunction about killing, but with the ability to appear normal and above suspicion."
"Like General Braxton."
"Like General Braxton," Harper agreed. "At least most of the time. Xantaeus'll ship next week, and you must stop it."
Suddenly the kitchen of Frank Harper's modest California ranch house erupted with a riot of noise and armed men clothed in black from their boots to balaclavas. Gabriel identified the men as the former Special Forces personnel who formed the core of the Defense Therapeutics security team and knew resistance would be foolish. He allowed himself to be handcuffed and led into the garage. One of the black-clad men opened the garage door, revealing the back of a medium-sized U-Haul truck.
CHAPTER 76
We slept until noon and got up when Rex turned up the downstairs stereo full blast and blasted us with the beat of vintage Boston. I awakened on my left side in a mammoth heart-shaped bed, staring out the window at a green mass of oaks and pines shivering in a light breeze.
When I sat up, I was a little relieved and a lot disappointed Jasmine was not there and, from the topography of the pillows and bed linens, had not been there. An instant later, I remembered kissing her good-night at the door to a bedroom down an impressively long hall and falling asleep with my arms and heart empty.
Under me, the mattress resonated to the deep, familiar bass from the vintage rock and roll. I sat up. The shattered mirror over the bed told part of the story, as did a pair of women's shiny gold, six-inch spiked heels embedded in the drywall. Empty Chivas and Crown Royal bottles littered a polished cherrywood bureau. Half-empty rocks glasses sat near the bottles; three of them had lipstick imprints, one in hot pink, another in cherry red, and the third a deep Goth black with a used condom draped over its rim.
I didn't want to think about the provenance of the bedsheets, but I was grateful to have fallen asleep fully clothed.
Downstairs, the "Rock and Roll Band" cut ended, and in the momentary silence Rex yelled that lunch was getting cold. I detoured through a luxurious shower before dressing in another pair of cargo shorts and a plain gray T-shirt.
I padded down the curved, Tara-like stairs in my bare feet. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling and dominated the thirty-foot-high cylindrical space within the staircase. Six pairs of thong panties in various Day-Glo shades dangled from one of the chandelier's hand-cut, oak-leaf crystal fobs along with a pair of large, striped boxers.
At the landing at the foot of the stairs, paper bags, milk crates, and cardboard boxes of gear covered the floor, save for a narrow path from the front door to a set of French doors to the left. Voices murmured against the French-door panes.
I paused to scan the piles of gear and recognized most of it from the list we had drawn up hours earlier on the drive down from the Delta.
Hanks of half-inch, high-vee, sixteen-stranded braided rope with the New England Ropes Safety Blue labels still on it were piled next to Miller shock-absorbing lanyards with locking snaps, full-body safety harnesses, webbed lineman's belts, and half a dozen bright red Petzl Ecrin Roc helmets, great for the head, bad for camouflage, but undoubtedly the only thing quickly available wherever the hell he'd found it. I walked over to a bag full of carabiners and pulled one out. Petzl again, four-and-an-eighth-inch balllock models. The tag said they tested out at over sixty-two hundred pounds.
I tossed the carabiner back in the bag and bent over another one, filled with StrikeTeam goggles with thick ballistic-rated polycarbonate lenses, and below those, leather gloves, a pile of Garmin GPS receivers, Motorola Spirit XTN two-watt, heavyduty walkie-talkies with earbuds and talk-to-speak microphones.
A pile of boot boxes was stacked up to my armpits, all full of brand-new Thorogood ten-inch wildland firefighting boots in a range of sizes. Next to them was a case of Counter Assault Bear Deterrent pepper spray. I bent over and cracked the cardboard box and pulled out a container the size of a spray-paint can. We had all agreed to minimize injuries to police and military personnel, who, after all, were only doing their jobs.
I read the label of the can to myself: "Strong enough to stop a bear in its tracks… range to thirty feet." I made a quiet, low whistle to myself. I had put pepper spray on the list, but had the smaller canisters in mind. I replaced the can in its case box and looked around the cluttered entryway.
There were bolt cutters, backpacks, black coveralls sprouting pockets and pouches on every surface, flashlights, and headlights of every description, including two huge twelve-volt, 250,000 candlepower SuperNova spotlights.
There was even stuff I did not remember asking for. Like a dozen sticks of construction-grade dynamite cut in half, and a thick, clear-polyethylene Ziploc containing detonators, about evenly split between electric and regular fuses that could be lit with a match.
The dynamite and detonators were of the type and age usually found in a petroleum exploration logging unit's "doghouse." There was paint thinner, a ten-pound hand sledge, two packs of road flares, and a roll of wide nylon webbing.
A big clear-plastic bag full of dark cotton sweatshirts, pants, T-shirts, underpants, and dark athletic shoes slumped in a far corner with a Ziploc full of handcuffs and, next to it, a hefty steel wedge for splitting firewood. There was also lots and lots of duct tape and cable ties of every imaginable size and color.
I shook my head at the collection of gear and at Rex's ability and resourcefulness to assemble it all between dawn and noon while the rest of us slept.
I followed the muffled voices through the French doors and into a grand dining room, where Jasmine, Tyrone, Rex and his wife, Anita-still in hospital scrubs-sat around the far end of a polished mahogany table long enough to fill Lehman Brothers' boardroom. Little square Krystal hamburger boxes and greasy french-fry envelopes carpeted their end of the table. My heart filled with light when I laid eyes on Jasmine.
"Good morning, sleepyhead." Jasmines eyes were bright and reflected the light coming in through the window. It chased the shadows from my heart.
I headed for the empty chair between Jasmine and Anita. On the table sat a half dozen little Krystal hamburgers and a line of Styrofoam coffee cups. Tyrone gave me a nod as he chewed on his food.
"Brad!" Anita gave me a smile that was part concern and part welcome. "So good to see you."