Illusive (16 page)

C
iere and Devon spend most of the night studying the will. Devon rewrote it from memory on several sheets of pink stationery. But no matter how many times they look over the scrawled words, they find nothing. Devon tries every cipher he knows, including a few he made up himself. They cross out every other word, reverse the letters, scramble and unscramble whole sentences. But if there is a hidden message in Richelle Fiacre’s will, it’s hidden too well.

When morning light begins to peek through her frilly white curtains, Ciere lets out a groan. Her eyes feel grainy and her hair unwashed. She flops onto her bed and rolls over, facing Devon. He’s perched sideways on her desk chair, his long legs sprawled over the arm. The will sits in his lap.

“What do you know about the Fiacres?” she asks. “I mean,
besides the obvious.” Maybe there is something here: a clue that would only be visible to someone who knew Richelle Fiacre better.

“Family of bloody lunatics,” Devon mutters. “Effing Brenton Fiacre and his Praevenir vaccine.”

“He did cure the MK plague,” Ciere feels obligated to point out.

Devon shoots the will a poisonous look. “Only for those who had the money to pay.” He pushes himself to his feet and begins to pace, his long strides eating up the small space between the desk and wall. “He also got the vaccine through with minimal testing.”

Ciere touches the place on her collarbone where the Taser barbs hit her. “Which explains the unexpected side effects.”

Devon snorts derisively. “That’s a mild way of putting it. Poor bastard realized what he’d done, though. Locked himself and his family in a warehouse full of the vaccine, along with all the research, and bid the world adieu with C4 and a reference to a Greek myth.”

“What was that again?”

“Pandora?” Devon asks, confirming. He waves his hand vaguely around, as if to indicate a box. “It’s a story about a woman who opened a box full of horrors like grief and misery and—ironically enough—disease. Once it was open, she couldn’t close it. Guess that Brenton Fiacre sympathized with her when he realized what he’d created. A box that could never be closed and all that.”

“Well, he closed it.” Ciere rolls over, burying her face in
a pillow. The soft cotton feels comforting, and she draws the duvet over her head. “Good-bye, Pandora’s box. Good-bye, formula. Good-bye, freedom. Hello, government cell.”

“So long as it has a toilet,” Devon says from somewhere behind her. “I need to take a piss.”

She listens to the sound of his footfalls as he strides through the door. Then she sits up and surveys her room. The last few days haven’t been kind to her bedroom. The place is a mess—scattered papers everywhere, empty teacups, dirtied plates, and an empty chip bag. This is not the abode of a master crook. This is not even the abode of a competent crook.

She begins picking up the papers, trying to fix some of the clutter. As she gathers the sheets, she glances over the will again. So many words, all of them seemingly meaningless. If there is a formula or a clue or even a damn crossword puzzle, then she’s too dumb to see it. Her eyes slide over the now-familiar legalese and then down to the signatures. Richelle Fiacre’s loopy scrawl is perfectly duplicated by Devon’s eidetic memory. Ciere lets her finger trace the name and wander down the page. Beneath Fiacre’s signature are three others—the witnesses.

She reads the words:
“We believe Marie Louis is sound of mind and not acting under duress, menace, fraud, misrepresentation, or undue influence. We declare under penalty of perjury under the laws of the State of New York that the foregoing is true and correct.”
Ciere blinks and stops reading. Turns out that legal language is
even better than counting sheep. She’s about to put the will down and admit defeat when something catches her eye—

The name of the first witness. Ciere sits bolt upright, her grip on the paper so tight that it rips around her fingers.

Ciere feels her breath catch.

Still clutching the paper, she runs from her room and down to the first floor. Without so much as a warning, she pushes the bathroom door open. Devon, washing his hands and humming contentedly to himself, jumps. “Ever heard of privacy?” he says. “What if I wasn’t finished?”

She thrusts the paper into his still-damp hand. “Look at the witnesses.”

Devon is still staring at Ciere like she’s utterly lost her mind. He rolls his eyes and glances down at the paper. She knows the moment that the knowledge sinks into Devon: he stops fidgeting and goes still.

“Rotting hell,” he says, the words coming out jerky and ragged.

“You memorize the directions to Endicott, New York,” Ciere says. “I’ll get the car keys.”

D
aniel is self-aware enough to admit that there is some irony in his current position. Specifically, the fact that he wants to ride in the car with the two FBI agents. As far as Aristeus knows, Daniel rides with the agents to ensure they aren’t about to pull a double cross. With Aristeus’s permission, Daniel was released from his three-mile radius to spy on the agents. But that’s not the real reason that Daniel volunteered for the job.

The two agents are a lot less creepy than Aristeus.

The morning after the raid, Aristeus wanted to get the will from the lawyers who unknowingly possessed the most dangerous piece of information currently in existence. Aristeus would have barged into the office and simply taken it, but Gervais stood firm. “Due process,” Gervais said firmly. “We’ll get a warrant.”

Aristeus looked as if he wanted to get a warrant by hypnotizing the nearest judge, and he probably would have if not for Morana’s surgery. While he spent the day at the hospital, Carson and Gervais got the warrant and obtained the will.

It took only a moment for Aristeus to scan the will and plan their next move. “Endicott, New York,” he said.

So here Daniel sits, in the backseat of a government-issue car, with the two agents who captured and put him in this situation to begin with. He should hate them, try to plot his escape, or think about how much he despises the establishment. Instead, all he can think about is how relieved he is to be out of Aristeus’s presence. Carson and Gervais do normal things like bitch to each other about work, handcuff Daniel to his armrest, and buy food. There is comfort in the normalcy of it all.

At their only pit stop, Gervais goes inside to restock on snacks while Carson fills up the gas tank. Daniel peers out the window. The drive from Baltimore to Endicott takes about five hours—although the trip was delayed again by Gervais’s insistence on following the law and obtaining a second warrant to search Pandora Marton’s house.

“We’re not simply going into someone’s house based on the wild conspiracy theory of a terrorist,” Gervais said when Aristeus protested.

As soon as the warrant was in their hands, the journey
northward began. The agents and Daniel took Gervais’s car, while Aristeus went to commandeer a van.

Carson drives quickly; they maintain a speed that’s well over the limit. Unlike his partner, Carson seems perfectly willing to disobey laws. When Daniel helpfully points out the fact that Carson is doing something illegal, the agent snorts. “Want to get there first” is all he’ll say.

Daniel perks up. The rivalry between the UAI and FBI is turning out to be amusing as well as informative. “Before Aristeus?”

Carson and Gervais glance at each other, but neither says a word. Daniel interprets this as:
You work for him; you’re not to be trusted.

“Hey, I’m just another guy who was pulled into this investigation against his will.” Daniel drums his fingers on the armrest. “Out of curiosity, how’d you two end up getting this gig, anyway? The FBI can’t be happy to have two of its finest at the UAI’s beck and call.” He is pretty sure that neither agent will answer him, but it’s fun needling them. And he has a feeling that fun will be a limited commodity for the rest of his life, so he might as well find it where he can.

“By the way,” Daniel says, “did you notice that your car is missing a hubcap?”

Carson’s crazy driving pays off—they arrive at Endicott before Aristeus. Carson pulls off the freeway and they drive
north. The landscape is a brilliant green; even in summer the humidity keeps the trees and grass lush. When they’re on the boundary between suburbs and country, Carson guides the car to the curb and parks it. “That’s it,” he says.

The house looks normal. It’s an old farmhouse, with two stories, yellow paint, and a porch that wraps around the entire first floor. Both Carson and Gervais swing out of the car and approach. “You going to leave me here?” Daniel calls. Carson looks over his shoulder.

“We cracked your window,” he says, like Daniel is an unruly dog. “You’re fine.”

Unless this is a trap. If anyone fires on the agents, the car will be the first target. And judging from Carson’s cheery wave, he knows it.

Gervais gestures for Carson to cover the rear. Carson nods and leaps over the porch railing, disappearing around a tangled rosebush. It’s obvious they’ve done this before. Gervais waits thirty seconds before he shifts, never standing directly in the path of the front door as he rings the bell.

Daniel realizes he’s holding his breath and forces himself to breathe normally. Gervais waits, poised like a cat above a mouse hole, all tense shoulders and crouched posture, ready to pounce or run.

Gervais shouts to Carson, confirming that no one has left the premises. Then Gervais lunges forward, his heel slamming
into the door. The door is a cheap fixture, and it buckles beneath the blow. “Going in,” Gervais says loudly. He has his gun out and ready now, aimed at the ground as he darts into the hallway and out of Daniel’s sight.

Daniel watches and waits, feeling exposed, as he glances up at the second story and imagines how easy it would be to put a sniper in any of those windows. In fact, any of these houses could easily be hiding vengeful members of TATE. They can’t be happy at having one of their bases raided. If Richelle Fiacre was involved, and if this place is hiding the Praevenir formula, it must be protected.

Daniel feels as if his every muscle has been drawn tight. The silence presses down on him and he scuffs his shoe against the floor for some noise. The house sits there, silent and disarmingly benign.

A screech of tires makes Daniel jump. His head swings around so fast that his forehead makes contact with the half-open window, and pain flares through his skull. His eyes flood and he rubs angrily at the aching spot on his forehead. When his vision clears, he sees a van.

Aristeus pushes the car door open. As he strides toward the house, his eyes go to the front door and fix there, like he’s seeing something extraordinary. He must realize he’s not alone, because he abruptly turns to face the FBI agents’ car. “What are you doing out here?” he says, jerking the car door open.

This is a bad thing, because Daniel is still handcuffed to said door’s armrest. He staggers out onto the pavement, barely managing to keep his feet as he’s dragged out into the open. Aristeus sees the handcuff and his brows draw together. “Oh, sorry,” he says, like he means it.

“No problem. Never liked that arm much, anyway.” Daniel grips the door tightly with his other hand.

“They cuffed you?”

“Well, if they didn’t, then this bracelet is more trouble than it’s worth.”

Aristeus makes a disgruntled noise. “And you couldn’t break out because I told you not to escape. Really, you’d think those two agents would have more faith in me.” He rummages in his suit pocket and comes up with a set of keys. “You’re no danger to anyone. Not anymore.” He locates the right key and slides it into the cuff. The metal falls away.

“Come on.” Aristeus moves away from the cars and to the house, obviously expecting Daniel to follow.

Heel
, Daniel thinks.
Good dog.

The hallway has a hardwood floor covered with a pink-and-yellow rug. There are generic pictures on the wall—panes of glass over photos of flowers, landscapes, and a few classical prints. But no family portraits, Daniel notes. No identifying information.

Aristeus walks into the kitchen and Daniel follows. It
looks pretty normal—a timer shaped like a pig rests next to the oven, and cutlery dangles from a hanger next to the fridge. Aristeus pulls a pen out of his pocket and uses it to lift a single mug out of the sink.

“Look at this,” he says.

It’s not the sound of the dominus’s voice that lures Daniel to the sink—it’s his own curiosity. The mug is plain white and holds a layer of brown sludge. Daniel sniffs. “Moldy coffee,” he says. Aristeus gives him an expectant look, and then he understands. “No one’s been here for at least a few days.”

“Exactly,” Aristeus agrees. His fingers brush over a toaster, plucking a slice of burnt bread from its interior. “They left toast in the toaster.”

“They left in a hurry.” Daniel feels himself relax. “There’s nothing here.”

“Let’s hope,” Aristeus says, “that you’re wrong.”

The ensuing search is less interesting than Aristeus made it sound. After all, saying,
“We’re going to look for the famed Praevenir formula,”
sounds good in theory, but in reality it involves a lot of grunt work. Aristeus declares they’re taking anything that could potentially hide a formula—tablets, the family computer, notebooks, even the books left beside the upstairs toilet.

There’s also a safe. It’s small—about the size of a microwave
oven and settled in a corner on the floor. Aristeus reacts like it’s the Holy Grail. Jittery with excitement, he paces back and forth, eager to see its contents. However, getting the safe open provides a challenge. Besides being a heavy SOB, it’s also bolted to the wall.

“Shoot it,” Daniel says to Gervais.

“It’s bulletproof,” Gervais replies, eyeing the cables.

“We are on a time schedule,” Aristeus calls from the hallway.

“Shoot him,” Daniel says quietly.

Gervais says, “The paperwork would be horrendous.” He runs a hand over the cables and looks to Daniel. “Why haven’t you offered to help?”

“Shoot Aristeus? Sorry, but I was expressly ordered not to.”

“No, I mean with this.” Gervais raps a knuckle against the safe and rises from his crouch. “Could you break this open?”

“I wasn’t expressly ordered to.”

“Could you?”

Daniel cracks his knuckles and surveys the safe with professional interest. It’s not cheap, but it’s not top of the line, either. Strictly middle-range home security, usually for important documents or valuables. It’s a stupid place to hide them. Safes are the first thing any crook will go after. If a person is smart, they’ll hide their valuables in their dirty laundry hamper, an old closet, or a fake toaster.

“Tell you what,” Gervais says. “You get this safe open and
you guarantee yourself another spot in the FBI car on the way home.”

Daniel considers, and says, “And donuts.”

“Really?”

“You want out of here?”

“Deal.”

When Aristeus comes to investigate, Daniel is on hands and knees, edging a slip of wire and a nail file into the locking mechanism while Gervais and Carson watch with rapt attention.

“I think that’s all of it,” Aristeus says briskly. “How’s this coming along?”

“It’d be a lot easier if all my tools weren’t confiscated when I was arrested,” Daniel mutters. “Ah, ah. Come on, you stubborn little hunk of—HA!” The lock springs open and Daniel yanks the door free, revealing the safe’s contents.

Money.

Twenty-dollar bills, mostly. They are all bound together, like money in a bank vault, and he would estimate the value at about five thousand.

Aristeus tries to hide his disappointment; he must have thought there would be a giant folder with the words
SECRET PRAEVENIR FORMULA
printed across it.

“Well, bag it,” Aristeus says. “I’m going to take what’s in the van back to DC.”

“If you don’t mind,” Gervais says quickly, “we’d like to take Burkhart with us for one last sweep of the house.”

Aristeus nods. “Not a bad idea. We should also leave someone here, to make sure that no one returns without our knowledge.”

“Who’s going to take that job?” Carson scoffs.

Aristeus smiles. “I think you nominated yourself.”

“You can’t leave a single agent here alone,” Gervais says. “It’s not safe.”

“It’s a stakeout,” Aristeus replies. “I’ll make some calls and get someone I trust out here to relieve him.” Gervais opens his mouth to argue, but Aristeus continues on. “Do you think we can trust something this sensitive to the local police force?”

The silence speaks for itself.

Aristeus says, “It’s about a six-hour drive from DC to here, so it should take that long for one of my operatives to arrive.” He turns to face Carson. “Do you think you can handle watching an empty house for that long?”

If it were phrased any other way, Carson might have been able to back down. But this is a challenge, and Carson’s hackles are up. A vein appears on his forehead. “I got this.”

“Good.” Aristeus rubs his hands together and surveys the office—the torn-up furniture and scoured bookshelves.

Daniel and the FBI agents return to their car, and Daniel finds himself once again in the backseat with his right wrist
encased in metal. They will drop Carson off at a local police station, where he’ll requisition an unmarked vehicle for his stakeout. (Daniel is well-versed in fed-speak enough to know that “requisition” means Carson will throw his badge around until he gets what he wants.)

“Productive morning,” Gervais says as they drive back toward town. There are more cars here, more people, and Daniel contents himself with gazing through the window, watching car after car pass them by. As they slow at an intersection, he catches a glimpse of a blue sedan turning down the road they just came from.

Through the sedan’s half-open window, Daniel sees a flash of short blonde curls.