Rebecca York (16 page)

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ALTHOUGH it might be Saturday, Kurt MacArthur could direct the search for Mark Greenwood better from his office.

But after he'd arrived at his desk, he found he was simply sitting around waiting for new information on the escapee. So he decided to tackle the Maple Creek problem from a different angle. Todd Hamilton.

He'd received a couple of folders full of material from Jim Swift with information pertaining to the millionaire's dead son. His MVA record. His phone calls. His school transcripts. His medical history.

The material went all the way back to nursery school.

Kurt hadn't had time to go over any of that in detail. Now he took the folders to the comfortable sitting area in the office complex. Settling onto the sofa, he laid the folders on the coffee table, then shuffled through them.

He started with the most current information. Phone records were usually interesting. But Todd had been careful— or paranoid. He hadn't revealed anything Kurt didn't already know in the calls from home or his cell phone.

He went on to credit card records. Todd had purchased a Glock eight months ago.

Kurt snorted. Apparently the guy had bought into the he-man Glock myth. And he'd been concerned about concealability—so he'd purchased the model 27. He hadn't bothered to take it to Maple Creek, though. It had been in his Baltimore apartment when they'd searched the place.

He'd also bought clothing that was suitable for undercover work. And he'd wasted his inherited money on big contributions to Greenpeace and other environmental groups.

Mary Ann looked in the door, and Kurt glanced up. "Anything on the Greenwood problem?"

"No, sir."

"Have any teams reported in?"

"Yes. But there's no new information."

"Make me a Reuben sandwich with the low-carb rye bread. And bring me more coffee."

"Yes, sir."

He stood up and stretched, unwilling to reveal his disquiet by pacing back and forth across the Berber carpet. He also resisted the urge to make some personal phone calls to the men out searching for Greenwood.

Mary Ann brought in his lunch and set it on the round table in the corner. He carried the research material to the dining area and thumbed through more documents while he ate—still frustrated in his mission to figure out how Todd Hamilton and his friend had overpowered the security team at Maple Creek.

With a sigh he shoved his sandwich aside and shuffled through the folders, picking one at random. It had photocopies of records from Todd's elementary school days.

He'd arrived in first grade already able to read, Kurt noted. His math skills had also been good. He'd been smart, but he'd been a loner kid with few friends.

The teacher, Mrs. Jacobson, had made a notation in his permanent record speculating that his social problems had something to do with his background. He was the son of a very rich man. And his parents were always pulling him out of school to take him to somewhere called the Remington Clinic.

Kurt's breath went still.

The Remington Clinic. What the hell?

Standing, he strode across the room and booted up his computer.

He waited impatiently for the security systems to do their thing, then typed in his password—Jehovah 101. His little joke.

When the menu came up, he called up "Old Business."

He was looking for a project from the days when he'd first come on board at the Crandall Consortium—back when the U.S. government had thought they were in a race with the Soviet Union for world domination. They'd known that the Commies were willing to try all kinds of nutball strategies to get ahead. The Kremlin had authorized projects that tried to find psychics who could remotely view faraway locations. They'd delved deeply into the use of "truth serum" and other chemicals as part of interrogation techniques. They'd had an extensive spy program designed to steal military and other technology from the West. And they'd tried to use genetics to breed children who were superior in various ways.

Calvin Crandall had gone looking for similar projects. And the Remington Clinic had been one of them—although relatively late in the game.

Kurt could still hear the doctor's supercilious voice echoing in his mind when he'd sat in on sessions with Remington and Crandall.

"Eight hours is the optimum time for the genetic manipulation of a human embryo."

In the late seventies human embryos had been in short supply. Not like today, when in vitro fertilization was common. So Remington had come up with an ingenious method for obtaining them. He'd set up a

"fertility clinic" where couples having trouble conceiving could take advantage of the latest techniques.

But really, his goal had been to produce superintelligent children who could beat out the Soviets in the race for scientists to run the space program, military weapons programs, and all the other programs considered essential for grinding the Soviets into the ground.

Remington had received ongoing grants from the Crandall Consortium. He'd also charged big bucks to couples who could pay for his fertility services. But he'd taken on others for reduced fees—if he'd thought they were suitable for his purposes.

The results had never been what Calvin had hoped for. Remington had been highly successful in establishing pregnancies and bringing them to term. But as far as Crandall could determine, the babies had been only modestly more intelligent than their counterparts conceived in the normal fashion. On the other hand, a surprising number had ended up being taken to shrinks. At least the upper-class ones whose parents could afford the best for their little brats.

He called up the ancient files on the clinic—files that had been converted to current computer technology because Kurt believed in documenting anything Crandall had done in the past—especially operations in which he'd been personally involved.

The records were very complete. Calvin Crandall had insisted on that. And Kurt went right to a list of the children conceived by the clinic's methods.

Sure enough, Todd Hamilton had been born of the sixty-seventh successful pregnancy. His birthday and the names of his parents and hometown were also listed.

Now they were getting somewhere!

On a hunch, Kurt scrolled up higher and found another familiar name—Glenn Barrow.

Son of a bitch! They were both in the program. So what the hell did that mean? That Remington's half-assed experiments had produced a group of emotionally disturbed kids who would grow up to be troublemakers? And how had these two subjects gotten together? Had they met in the Remington waiting room when they were in diapers and kept in touch?

He went back to the list, stroking his chin, looking for other names he recognized. He saw several. The women were a problem, though. They were listed under the last names they'd been born with. But he'd expect many of them would have married by now.

Pressing his intercom, he snapped, "Mary Ann."

She was at the door in moments. "What do you need?"

"I'm sending a file of names to your computer. Start doing a Google search on as many of them as you can find. Look for people born in the late seventies or early eighties, probably from Connecticut or a nearby state."

"How deep a search?"

"Just a paragraph on each one." He leaned back in his chair. "It's a long list. If you can't find anything interesting on one guy, go on to the next."

"Yes, sir. What do you consider interesting?"

"Use your judgment. No—wait. Look for antisocial and criminal activity." He went on rapidly. "With the women, try and see if you can figure out any of their married names."

"Yes, sir."

When Mary Ann had departed, Kurt stood. He hadn't thought about the fertility clinic in years. Now he brought back the scene when Calvin had called him in and told him that Remington was looking for other sources of funding. His boss had asked him to evaluate the viability of the project.

He'd reported his findings on the children. They'd discussed the fussy little doctor with his arrogant demands. Finally, Calvin had asked him to terminate the research operation—with extreme prejudice.

DANIEL BRIDGEWATER HAD brought no luggage with him to Orlando, but Willow and Sax were expecting him. He had called from a pay phone at Reagan National Airport to tell them he had business with them. And they had told him that some of the campaign contributions they'd promised were already on the way.

Taking off on the spur of the moment wasn't his customary style. But he needed to see the Trinitys in person. That's what he told himself on the way down. But he kept wondering if that was the real reason for his obsessive behavior.

And he understood deep down in his consciousness that he should turn around and go home. He had no business getting mixed up with this pair of charlatans. But they had promised him money. Money he needed for his campaign for president, so he drove to their mansion.

At night it had looked rich and impressive in the glow of warm yellow spotlights. In daylight it looked a little tacky—like an extension of Disney World.

Again, he questioned what he was doing here—even as he parked and rang the door chimes.

The last time he had been to the mansion, Sax had greeted him personally. This afternoon a guy who acted more like a bouncer than a butler showed him into a small but comfortable room that looked out over gardens of too-bright flowers.

As he cooled his heels, he thought about why he had really come here. To see Willow. She had the hots for him, and maybe she would meet him alone this time.

When the pair walked in together, he had to contain a surge of disappointment.

He wanted to ask Sax to leave. He wanted privacy with the woman whose heartbreakingly beautiful face and feminine body called to him.

"On the phone you sounded like you had some important information," his blond goddess said, sitting beside him, her knee pressed to his.

"Yes," he answered, knowing that he had come here to make love to her—and the promise of information had only been a ruse. Or had he come here for money? He couldn't remember.

Really, the idea that he was going to babble military secrets to her or her brother was unthinkable.

He watched them sitting beside him, holding hands like lovers, and he felt like barbed wire was twisting in his gut.

Then he reminded himself he was a powerful U.S. senator. She was just an upstart religious nut. And he'd come all the way down here to Florida to see her?

A wave of panic gripped him. He wasn't thinking rationally. He should get out of this room. Out of this house. What the hell was he doing here?

But when she laid a hand on his knee, his jumbled thoughts became clear.

He heard her make a small exclamation. Then her gaze bored into his.

"What about Maple Creek?" she asked.

Alarm leaped inside him. "Where did you get that name? It's supposed to be classified."

"I got it from you. You just told me. I asked you to let us know if you heard anything ... unusual, and you were good enough to come to us with the information."

He saw the intensity of her expression—and her brother's.

"No ... I... I was just thinking it."

"Yes." Her hand slid up his leg, pressed over his fly, making him instantly hard.

"I want you," he gasped out.

"I know. And I want you, too, Dan. So much. But first you need to tell me about Maple Creek. Why did it stand out in your mind? Why is it important?"

He wanted to pull her into his arms and ravage her mouth with his. He wanted to be alone with her. But when she pushed him back into the sofa cushions, he knew his knees were too weak to allow him to stand.

"Tell me what you know about Maple Creek," she whispered.

"It's a research facility. I'm not sure what they do there. Well, I know it's defense oriented. But I've never—"

"Why are you worried about it?"

"A couple of weeks ago something strange happened."

She sighed, and he felt her exasperation. He didn't want to make her angry. He wanted to please her.

When she asked, "How do you know?" he answered promptly

"There's a report. It's secret. But I have contacts. I got a copy."

"What put you on to Maple Creek in the first place?"

"Lindsay Fleming asked me about it."

"Who is Lindsay Fleming?" Willow demanded, her fingers caressing him.

"She's on my staff."

"Do you fuck her?"

In the background he heard Sax make a growling sound.

"Certainly not," he answered. "I never have sexual relations with anyone on my staff."

"Let's get back to Maple Creek," Sax muttered. "What happened there?"

He didn't want to answer. He wanted to speak to Willow alone—naked. In a bedroom. But she was keeping his mind focused on business. He wasn't sure how, since he was so hot he was near to going up in flames.

"Two men broke in. They overpowered the security staff. But not with any kind of conventional weapons."

"Are you sure?"

"It's in the report."

"How did they do it?"

"Nobody knows."

"Chemicals?"

"They're not sure."

"How did they do it?" she asked again, this time more urgently.

"They're trying to find out. Most of the guards who came into contact with them are dead. The one who survived had his brains fried. He's in a mental hospital."

"Which one?"

"Colefax Manor. Before they died, some of the other guards were talking about getting zapped with a death ray."

Willow paused and looked at her brother, then asked, "Who were they—the intruders who broke in?

Do you have their names?"

"Todd Hamilton and Glenn Barrow."

"Two men?" she asked carefully. "You're sure it wasn't a man and a woman?"

"No. Unless one of them had a sex-change operation."

The questions stopped. He saw the brother and sister gripping each other's hands, eyes closed.

He felt something. A pain inside his skull, like needles piercing the flesh of his brain.

"No! Stop." He would have shouted, but the plea came out more like a croak.