“Where are your children?” Circe asked as soon as we were inside.
“In the basement playroom,” Taylor said quickly, but as she said it she took a reflexive step to stand between us and the door to the cellar. “They’re watching a video. They … don’t know.”
I glanced around. We stood in a short entry hall. There was a tall faux Ming vase from which a hockey stick, a pool cue, and a baseball bat sprouted. She caught my look. “In case,” she said.
The woman had grit.
Circe guided Taylor into the living room. “Mrs. Taylor,” she said quickly, “we are going to help you. Captain Ledger has his team coming. They’ll be here any minute. They are military Special Forces and they can protect you and your children from anyone.”
Taylor did not look immediately relieved.
“He said that they would know if I left work, or … picked up the kids. Or anything. He said that they were always watching. He showed me pictures. From here. From inside the house—”
“Don’t worry about that anymore. I set up a jammer. They’re not seeing a thing.”
“He’ll know that I did something.” The fear in her voice was like a poison fog that clung to the air around her. I hoped like hell the Spaniard would show up. There were a few things I’d like to discuss with him. And then I wanted to rip his fucking lungs out.
“‘He’?” Circe asked. “Do you mean the man who threatened you?”
“Yes.”
“What can you tell us about him?”
She described what we already knew. A compactly built man wearing dark clothes and a mask, and who spoke with a Spanish accent. The rest of her story echoed the same horrors we got from Grey. Threats, the knife. The photos of the angels.
“How many pictures did he show you?”
“I … I don’t …” She stopped, dabbing at her eyes while she thought about it. “Maybe twelve of each. Women, and children. Six boys, six girls. I … think they were boys and girls. It was hard to … to …” She shook her head.
Circe looked at me with eyes that were fierce and bright and wet. I could imagine the sickness and rage that she felt. Inside my own head I could feel the Warrior start to howl. Even the civilized Modern Man part of me wanted blood.
“Tell me about what they wanted you to do.”
“It was the fleas … .”
Her company was part of a group of companies working on a government-funded project to develop a lasting treatment for Yersinia pestis. Although the plague was rare these days, there were still cases of it, and there was always the risk of terrorists weaponizing a strain. It was the same argument that justified the testing of Ebola at FIRE.
It was hard to accept it and hard to knock it down, because weaponized bubonic plague would truly be a terrible weapon and one that would be easy enough to distribute. Releasing infected fleas into widespread and uncontrolled animal populations, particularly rats, would do it. Antibiotics could be used to fight the disease, but an outbreak would create panic and would be hard to stop once started. Especially if the rats that were infested with the plague fleas were introduced in areas with large homeless and poverty-level populations. Her company was testing the latest strains of the bacteria on rat subspecies found in the subway systems of Philadelphia and New York. There were enough infected fleas at Strauss & Strauss to begin a medium-scale epidemic.
“That’s what they wanted me to do. Go into the lab and take canisters of fleas and then drop one in each of ten stations on the Broad Street Line and ten on the Market-Frankford Line.”
“There would be a fairly long lag time between that and an outbreak,” said Circe. “How would they know if you had done what they asked?”
“They said to release fleas in the staff room. Into coats and gloves, scarves, boots.”
“But you did not do that,” prompted Circe.
Taylor shook her head. “I … almost did.”
“What stopped you?”
“There was a video. From a doctor working with Homeland.”
“Dr. Bishop?” I suggested, and she nodded. Score one for Church.
“They said that once I did that they would know right away.”
“Did what? Release the fleas at work?”
“Yes.”
“Which means that there was someone else at your office?”
“Yes. I got messages sometimes. Little reminders.” She described finding notes with words like “watching” and “everywhere” and some with the kids’ names on them. It was a lot like what Dr. Grey had experienced.
Fresh tears broke from Taylor’s eyes. “He said that no matter how long it would take, they would come after my babies. Can you really keep them safe?”
She was so convinced that her own life was over that she only asked about her kids. It was admirable, but it was also interesting in that from a detached point of view it was clear that her own life meant nothing compared to her kids’ lives. I know that parents will die for their kids, but I believed I was seeing a hint of the precise kind of mental-emotional configuration that had to exist in people targeted by the Spaniard.
I heard Ghost bark once. Short and sharp.
Not a danger warning. I smiled. I knew what that meant.
There was a knock on the door.
I said, “The cavalry has arrived.”
Chapter Forty-eight
The Hangar, DMS HQ
Floyd Bennett Field
Brooklyn, NY
December 19, 1:51 P.M. EST
“Deacon?”
“Hugo,” said Church. “Do you have something for me?”
“Maybe. I just got off the phone with Marty Hanler. I’ve been trying to get him to join the think tank, maybe kick the group in the ass a bit, ’cause without him the only things they’ve come up with are ‘jack’ and ‘shit.’”
“He won’t leave Margie for that long. Between the surgery and the chemo—”
“I know. But with all that’s going on I thought it was worth a shot. Anyway, he told me something disturbing and I recommended that he call you.”
“What is it?”
Vox told him.
“That’s disturbing,” agreed Church. “Very disturbing.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Captain Ledger is in the area. I’ll have him meet and debrief Marty.”
“Ledger’s back in the game?”
“Yes.”
“Glad to hear it. That boy’s a demon.”
Church did not comment on that. Instead he said, “Circe is with him.”
Vox whistled. “That’s an interesting pair.”
Church made no comment and ended the call.
Chapter Forty-nine
Jenkintown, Pennsylvania
December 19, 2:15 P.M. EST
The two people at the door did not look like soldiers or terrorists. They wore long coats and felt hats. Each one of them carried a valise and wore a bright smile.
“Have you heard the word of God today?” asked the shorter of the two, a blonde woman with ice blue eyes.
“Have you been saved?” asked the other, a black man with scars on his face. He handed me a copy of The Watchtower.
“Well, hallelujah,” I said, and stepped back to let DeeDee and Top enter the Taylor household. I checked the street and saw that it was empty. No sign of Echo Team’s vehicle.
As I closed the door, Top said, “We’re parked two blocks over; engine’s running for when you give the word. We have the TacV.”